


Glory of Death

by Athenais_Penelope_Clemence



Series: Anne Boleyn AUs [2]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Doomed Relationship, Drama, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Mental Anguish, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:49:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence/pseuds/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU to S2E18, the episode "Lady in Waiting". Anne Boleyn discovers Henry kissing with Jane Seymour, and her grief results in her premature, difficult labor. The unfading glory of death in childbirth giving the king a son suddenly seems to Anne more appealing than the doubtful glory of queenship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, we assume that Anne Boleyn is eight months along in her pregnancy instead of about four months as it is in the episode “Lady in Waiting” when Anne suffers her second miscarriage. This is a drama and a tragedy, and you shouldn’t expect that Anne will give birth to a healthy son and then will be happy with Henry who will discard Jane Seymour because he will suddenly discover that he loves only Anne. 
> 
> There are two chapters in this story, and each of them includes about 15,500 words. The second chapter is more tragic and more dramatic than the first one.
> 
> I am not a passionate Anne/Henry shipper in life because I don't like Henry's cruel and selfish personality and I don’t think that he could change. I view Anne Boleyn and Henry Tudor as a doomed match, and I ship them in life only with a bittersweet end if Anne survives, like in my story “Hollow Love”, or in tragedy and in death. I cannot see Anne happy in her marriage to Henry in the long run.

**Glory of Death**

**Chapter 1**

**Distressed Queen**

Gazing into the semidarkness, Queen Anne Boleyn lay on the large wooden bed covered with rich red brocade tapestries. She was in her own beautiful and spacious bedchamber at the Whitehall Palace, where she had been brought by King Henry after she had discovered Lady Jane Seymour sitting on her husband’s knees and kissing with hungerand an achingly bittersweet longing, as if each of them were tasting some forbidden fruit. The bed curtains were drawn close, locking Anne in her dreary loneliness; there was a great fire in the hearth, which danced in orange and white flickers.

Henry Tudor didn’t care that Anne was eight months along in her pregnancy and that she shouldn’t have been distressed to successfully carry the child to term: instead, Henry spent time with the woman whom he wanted to have as his wife instead of Anne and whom he had promised to serve as Lancelot served his Guinevere. The king considered himself fully entitled to have as many mistresses as he wished while his queen was supposed to do her duty to England and to him. Henry could think only of the long salons fatted up with brocades and silks, of beautiful young belles of the court, of lavish and opulent feasts and festivities with their priceless curiosities and all kinds of entertainment, of the infamous hunting parties he often had with Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, where he indulged himself into extramarital affairs, and, of course, of his beloved Lady Jane Seymour.

Queen Anne had stood at the doorway for quite some time before she made her appearance known to Henry and Jane. She knew with certainty that she would never forget the sight of her beloved Henry kissing Jane hungrily and possessively, and the wench responding to his kisses with the matching hunger and desire instead of the fake sweetness and shyness, which the hypocritical maiden usually displayed to the world. Anne had watched Henry and Jane break their kiss and pull back from each other. Then Anne had witnessed resentfully the picture of Henry looking into Jane’s gray eyes with such love and devotion, as if he were seeking to imprint upon his memory the wench’s face before it was altered by the additional memory of their new kiss, as if he were craving, in thought at least, to have Jane as his queen rather than Anne, whom he was unable to bid farewell while Anne carried his child.

Anne had never thought that she could ever feel such a strong pain as she had felt at that moment. She had been unable to breathe and talk as the naked anguish and the tearing pain had surged through her core. She had always been jealous of Henry to Catherine of Aragon, while the older woman had been alive and the Great Matter had dragged on for years, and to his mistresses, but never before had she been as jealous and hurt as she had been at that particular moment. She had always been wounded by Henry’s infidelities because she loved him too much, and her jealousy had given Henry a colossal amount of trouble.

There had been not only pain, but also black fury in Anne’s heart. She was sure that she could have killed Jane Seymour with her bare hands if she had been able to find a sword at that moment. The fog of hatred and loathing had enveloped Anne’s entre being at the thought that Jane had played a role of such a sweet maiden, while it had always been only a pretense because no decent woman would allow a man, even a King, to pursue and woo her if she had known that his queen had been pregnant. Anne herself would have never let Henry parade herself in front of Catherine and the whole court if she had known that Catherine had been with child.

Anne had been trying to forgive Henry for his infidelities out of her love for him and because she had hoped that he would change over time, but now everything was different. Something was broken deeply inside her – the part of Anne’s heart that had been previously intact was now bleeding heavily. The sight of Henry and Jane kissing didn’t only injure her pride – it was a mortal blow to Anne. She felt as though Henry had taken a sword and had plunged the blade into her heart, killing her with a single strike. Henry’s betrayal with Jane Seymour had made Anne forcibly acquainted with the cruelest pain that she had never known before.

The proof of Henry’s new betrayal with Jane had nearly killed Anne on the spot, and she had made her appearance known to the lovers, lashing out at Henry and the wench. Henry had scooped Anne into his arms, trying to calm his fuming wife, but she had continued punching him into his chest until she had lost all her strength and had started weeping quietly. Then Henry had gently lifted her and carried her to the queen’s quarters, asking Anne’s ladies-in-waiting to take care about the distressed Queen.

Before Henry had left, perhaps thinking that Anne hadn’t suffered enough, he had sought to expose Anne to an even deeper heart wound by telling her that she had again behaved not like the dignified Queen of England should have acted but like a hysterical woman usually did. Then the king had left her alone. Like an evil deity, Henry’s words had been thrusting Anne on towards destruction, and she had spent the next hour weeping so hard that her ladies had feared she would go into labor because of her stress.Fortunately, the queen’s distress had awakened only nausea in her body, and she had kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer for the heath of her child after she had finally stopped crying.

Queen Anne turned her gaze at the gorgeous wedding ring with an oval cut diamond surrounded by eight diamonds – the ring Henry had given her on the day of their secret wedding several years ago when she had been carrying Elizabeth. Anne averted her eyes, unable to look at the ring which she had loved so much and which she had begun to perceive as a symbol of empty and broken promises and of _a fake, hollow love_ because her marriage to Henry had turned out to be very different from the model and happy marriage of the English royal couple which she had once stupidly created in her mind.

Suddenly, Anne removed the ring from her finger and threw in away, not wishing to wear anything associated with Henry and their love she had once thought to be as deep and unfathomable as the mysterious and distant oceans were. Then she looked into the emptiness of the room, not wishing to believe that Henry had betrayed their love with Jane Seymour of all the women in the world, the woman who was nothing like Anne and who didn’t deserve to become the replacement of Anne in Henry’s heart and on the throne of England. It was beyond her understanding why the king was so drawn to the simple, undereducated, and meek girl, without fire and spirit – to the shell of Anne.

Anne felt tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away with her palm. “ _Henry, you promised to love me forever. You said that London would have to melt into the Thames first before you stopped loving me. Instead, your love began to die when I gave you Elizabeth, and you loved me only for about a year after our marriage, until I lost our second child_ ,” she whispered to herself, as but as if she were talking to Henry. Her chest was heavy with anguish. “ _Your love didn’t last longer than a year, Henry._ ”

Despite his betrayals of their love and despite everything that had happened between them, Anne still loved Henry with all her heart; she also loved her dear Elizabeth and the unborn child she was carrying in her womb. But she wasn’t sure anymore that Henry still loved her: she had once inspired love in him and jealousy even to her brother at the beginning of their legendary romance, but she began to believe that Henry loved himself more than he had ever loved Catherine and her, his fiery and intemperate Anne, as well as all other women who had ever caught his eye and whom he had bedded. Henry Tudor was the greatest love of himself in his entire life, Anne concluded with bitterness.

Anne looked down at the blanket that covered her up to her breasts. She put a hand on her swollen belly, feeling her baby move slightly. “I may be a creature driven by vanity and ambitions, and I don’t deny that, but I am also full of love, even if the people don’t want to see that.” Her eyes glittered with excitement. “I know that you are a boy; I feel that,” she said to herself and to her child, her hand caressing her own belly; a small smile grazed her delicate but tired features. “I know that one day you would become a handsome and strong man and the great King of England.”

Anne felt that her idea about the child’s gender wasn’t an empty wish fulfillment. She smiled to herself at the thought that she, Queen Anne Boleyn, could have been hated by all the people who considered her a woman from whom all evil sprang, but she was sure that she and only she would be the mother of the next King of England. The thought that her baby was a boy was precious, as if, in proportion as all her sufferings in her marriage to Henry increased, there increased at the same time the ultimate reward she would eventually get – she would give Henry a healthy heir, proving to everyone that her marriage to Henry had always been legal and valid.

Unable to fight back tears, Anne let them fall from her eyes. She choked down the tears welling in her throat. “Henry, I love you so much even if you no longer love me,” she murmured to herself, her eyes burning with tears. “I know that you will probably try to replace me with this wench even if I give you a healthy son because you can go to any length to get what you want.” She shut her eyes and drew a deep, deep breath. “You changed so much that I don’t know what to expect from you anymore.”

The darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, descended upon the city of London, and there was the same inky darkness in Anne’s heart and soul. _Anne Boleyn felt that her time of queenship was nearing its end: Henry could replace her with Jane or she could die in childbirth_. To her astonishment, Anne discovered that the idea that she would perhaps die soon didn’t chill her to her bones like a strong cold wind blowing somewhere from the north. The thought of _death_ was a welcoming one for the first time in her life because _death_ could give her peace that was denied to her in real life. _Death_ was oblivion and peace, while life, full of sufferings and woes, was worse than a torture.

“Henry, why are you doing this to me?” Anne said aloud in an aching voice, as if she were talking to Henry; her hand protectively rested on her stomach. “Why are you destroying me day by day? Why do you hate me so much that you love so many others and yet claim that you still love me?”

Only a male name – Henry – sounded in her ears. He was King Henry VIII of England, the glorious Tudor Prince who had become the most powerful man in the kingdom after he had been proclaimed the Head of the Church of England. He was the man who had changed Anne’s life after she had agreed with her father’s demands to attract the king’s attention. He was the man who had courted and had treated Anne as a Queen while he had still been married to Catherine, and she had let herself fall in love with him. He was the man who had been her entire world and for whom she would have done everything. In the end, her dear Henry had become the man who no longer loved Anne and who had broken her heart into countless small pieces, who had betrayed her for the sake of a pale blonde slut who wouldn’t spread her legs for him. Henry was no longer the man Anne had once fallen in love with.

The worst was that Henry didn’t feel guilty of distressing Anne so much. He firmly believed that he was the King of England who could have done everything he wished. Everyone had to do what he wanted at his express request, at any time of the day and of the night. Everyone had to please him and satisfy all his wishes and desires. Henry Tudor was a selfish man, whose subjects could refuse him nothing, who cared mostly about himself, and who had a thousand other things to do for himself, more important things than to care about his pregnant wife. Henry didn’t care that his indiscretions with Jane caused so much pain to Anne: instead, he was thoroughly annoyed and angry at his queen, though she couldn’t deny that he was also worried about her but more about the baby that was growing in her womb.

The king considered Anne an undignified Queen who didn’t wish to tolerate his infidelities with feigned indifference, with her head high and with a cold smile on her face, like Catherine of Aragon had acted throughout many years. Anne didn’t deny that she didn’t always act with a calm and dismissive air when she watched Henry lavishing his mistresses and lovers with his affections, but nevertheless she had still been trying to be a good wife to Henry and a good Queen, acting in the way as it had been expected of her in her new station she currently occupied.

But Anne was not Catherine: she was more intemperate and easily gave free reign to her emotions. Maybe she should have changed and behaved like Catherine, but she doubted that she would be able to watch Henry flirting with and bedding other women shamelessly and cruelly just. Could she really turn a blind eye to Henry’s infidelities? Anne supposed that she could do that, but only after her _death_ , even if it sounded hilarious to her, because her love for him was as great and glorious as heroic death of a loyal knight for his king and liege lord on the battlefield had always been.

During their courtship, Henry had always told her how beautiful and graceful she had been, bestowing great praises and compliments on her. He had told her that he would have painted her to immortalize her beauty if he had been a painter; he had even said that he could have heard distant, lingering music of perfect bliss when he had looked at her and which her slender figure and her deep blue eyes had promised him. Henry had claimed that there had been grace and mystery in Anne as though she had been a symbol of something divine. But everything had changed.

Over years, Henry had become immune to Anne’s great charm which in the past she had often used to get from the king what she had wanted for her family and for herself. Now Henry wasn’t even looking at Anne as a woman: he didn’t need and want Anne, but he wanted and needed Jane. Anne often felt that her husband had really distasted her so much that he couldn’t bear looking at her at all. Once their love had been better than anything else in the world, and Henry’s voice whispering love confessions into her ear had led her through her life to victory, but now it was a lethal poison that was slowly killing her, destroying every inch of living mass in her physical form.

Anne’s love for Henry was still a pure, deep, and ardent feeling, but now it had a halo of tragedy. Anne had tried to return the old love into her relationship with her husband, but she had failed to achieve that because the king’s affections for Jane Seymour overshadowed everything else in his life. Now the king’s ears were full not of merry laughter when he thought of Anne but filled with words of argument and dispute, which he was growing to hate. Once the king couldn't have begrudged Anne doing anything on her own and what she had wanted, but now he accused her of all the things she wasn’t responsible for and cast a blame for his own sins on her.

Everything in Anne’s life was slowly moving to destruction. She tried to escape from pain and change something in her life for the better, but she always returned to the same point where she had been at the beginning. All her actions were hurtful to her existence, giving her a feeling of pain and sorrow, and only her love for Henry was her sanctuary from the world and her enemies who conspired to bring her down every day and every night. Anne’s life became a sorry existence, in which only some pleasure and enormous pain were interwoven in a very obvious way. She often wondered whether tragic Gods on Olympus would have the solemn feast of the sacred fire, in which Anne’s life would be burning to ashes while they would be celebrating her demise.

The thoughts of _death_ returned to Anne. She would have gladly lived a long and happy life with Henry, Elizabeth, and their unborn child, but she knew that even if she had given Henry a son and had kept her position of the Queen of England, she would never be as happy with Henry as she had once dreamt of being in her queenship. She understood that if she had remained the queen and if Henry had continued living not caring about her feelings and about her as a personality, she would be either entirely broken or would eventually fall out of love with him. Even if Anne had remained the queen, she didn’t have any hope left for the bright future because Henry had already shattered all her dreams. 

Most importantly, Anne didn’t want to live a life of pretense and pain, with a constantly bleeding heart, and her most cherished hope was to give Henry a son and then die in childbirth, so that her name would be forever remembered and cheered by the king and the common people of England. If she had died in childbirth, she would have left a great legacy after herself – her Elizabeth, a Boleyn girl and a Tudor rose and Princess, and the boy who was growing in her womb. _The unfading glory of untimely death in childbirth and the immortalization of her name as the mother of the future King of England suddenly seemed more appealing than the doubtful glory of queenship and family life with the king._

Elizabeth and Anne’s unborn child were the only pure things that had come out of her relationship with Henry Tudor. She would have wanted to see her daughter grow up into a beautiful young lady, more intelligent than her other coevals and probably any other girl in England, but there were too many other negative things that she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with if she had survived. Anne’s romance and marriage to Henry had been an exquisite torment that had finally evolved into a dreadful terror, and she wished _death_ to enter upon her and take her away from the world of pain and sufferings to Heaven, like a sunset takes away the night.

Suddenly, Queen Anne felt a sharp pain her abdomen. “Argh!” she screamed. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the increasing red spot on the white sheet. “No, no, no!” she cried out in despair, withering in pain. “No, my boy… not my boy,” she moaned the words quieter, her eyes full of fear, her expression panic-stricken, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

The door of the bedchamber flung open, and two of Anne’s most loyal ladies-in-waiting entered; other ladies also rushed to the queen’s suite. Nan Saville and Madge Shelton almost ran to the queen’s bed, their faces ghostly paled at the sight of blood-stained white sheets and Anne’s horrified face.

“Your Majesty, what happened?” Madge Shelton asked as she stopped near the bed.

Nan Saville also stood next to the bed, her eyes taking in the terrible picture before her eyes. It was clear that the queen was either losing her child or was experiencing the pains of childbirth. “Madge, don’t be so stupid,” she reproached. “Go and find Doctor Linacre! Now! Now!”

Madge blinked in shock, paralyzed. “Is that a miscarriage?”

Nan frowned. “Madge, go!” she shouted, pushing the younger woman away from the bed.

“I am going,” Madge replied. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the queen’s apartments.

“Oh my boy… I cannot lose him,” Queen Anne groaned. A sensation of mortal dread that had seized her heart made her stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed at her ladies. At the same time, she could feel more and more blood pooling out of her. “It cannot happen again! God cannot be so cruel and take another child from me!” She could think only of the child that would soon be lost again. “Please God don’t take my boy to Heaven,” she whispered as she curled herself into a form of a ball in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. “Please not this time, God! Please let my boy live!”

Nan took away one blood-stained sheet, feeling fear grip her heart tightly. “Your Majesty, please try to stay calm! Madge has already gone to fetch the doctor,” she assured the queen. She took a clean sheet from another lady, then covered Anne with it. “Please try to stay calm.”

Anne wasn’t listening to Nan. “My boy, please stay with me,” she pleaded the creature inside her. She was feeling weaker and weaker as the blood continued flowing out of her, while the pain inside her belly was increasing at the speed of the light. “My boy, please don’t die.”

Nan Saville seated herself on the edge of the bed. “Your Majesty, please take a hold of your emotions. You will need a lot of energy as soon as the doctor comes,” she said in the most soothing tones.

The queen nodded. “I know, Nan,” she replied in half a whisper. “I know.”

“Your Majesty, you have to stay calm for your child and for yourself.” Nan gave her mistress a small smile. She prayed that Doctor Linacre would come soon.  

Anne shook her head in agreement, and managed a faint smile. Then a wave of strong pain slashed through her, and she screamed as if in agony. “Nan, my waters have broken. The baby is coming,” she said, looking at the soaked sheet. “Please find the midwife urgently.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Never before had Nan Saville been so frightened. She jumped to her feet and approached one of Anne’s ladies, who immediately turned around and ran out of the chamber.

Nan Saville returned to the bed and settled on the edge; one of the ladies-in-waiting gave her a bowl of fresh water, and she moistened the cloth; then she wiped sweat from Anne’s forehead. As Nan’s gaze locked with Anne’s, she could see only naked and primal fear in her mistress’ deep blue eyes. Both women were thinking about the same thing – the risk of Anne going into premature labor. If Anne had been really experiencing the pains of childbirth, then the child was coming quite early. Though they knew that some eight-month children survived infancy, the likelihood of a child’s survival was lower than that of a child carried to term. In addition, Anne had already lost too much blood.

A strong wave of pain slashed through Anne’s midsection, and she doubled in pain, gasping. “It hurts so much,” she murmured. Fog was swirling in her mind, and she slowly slipped into the blackness.

Next time when Queen Anne had regained her conscience, she found herself lying on the bed with her legs widely spread and with the clean white sheet covering her from the breast to her knees. She noticed that blood wasn’t flowing out of her body anymore, and it gave her some hope that perhaps not everything was as bad she had initially assumed. But Anne was still in pain, feeling mild contractions, especially painful in her lower stomach. The reality slowly sank in, and she remembered what had happened to her. She could see her ladies hurrying in and out of bedroom, swiftly passing by her bed and vanishing from her sight.

“My child,” Anne wailed, clutching her abdomen helplessly.

“Don’t do this, Your Majesty,” Nan Saville pleaded as she and Madge took the queen’s hands into their hands. “You are in labor, and you have to work hard to give birth to her baby.”

“Your Majesty, you have to push now,” the midwife urged the queen.

Anne turned her head and stared at the midwife who approached the bed and placed her hand on the queen’s belly. “Is my child alive?” she asked the woman, her eyes full of hope.

The midwife nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. I can feel the baby moving.”

Queen Anne didn’t need any more encouragement from anyone. The words that her baby was still alive in spite of the rivers of blood she had seen some time ago worked like a magic. Gritting her teeth to endure the new wave of pain that slashed through her, Anne began to push, mastering her courage and gathering all the strength she still possessed. As minutes were passing, the contractions were becoming stronger and stronger, and she continued pushing over and over again, growing weaker and weaker, but unfortunately no serious progress was achieved.

“It hurts too much,” Anne complained, her voice exhausted, her expression pained. “I hope the baby will come quite quickly because I cannot tolerate this pain anymore.”

“Your Majesty must do this the hard way,” the midwife told her gently, trying to mask her growing worry with a smile. “Every mother goes through labor, and this is not the first time for Your Majesty.”

“It is true,” Anne mattered, letting out a deep sigh as pain subsided slightly. “Has someone told the king that the labor has already started?” she asked, running her eyes over her ladies-in-waiting.

Madge Shelton inclined her head in conformation. “I have already notified His Majesty.”

“Was His Majesty alone when you found him?” Anne needed to know the truth.

The defeating silence was the response to Anne’s question. Every lady-in-waiting felt as if she were in a wrong place at that instant. Nobody dared tell the queen the harsh truth about King Henry’s behavior after he had asked them to take care of the queen as if she were a naughty and empty-headed girl. The king’s words that he would be waiting for the news together with Lady Jane Seymour echoed in the ears of Madge Shelton and all the other ladies amid the silence of the night; Madge had shared the information with the others after she had returned from the king’s quarters.

Anne didn’t need to hear their answer. She could easily understand the true meaning of their grim expressions and bowed heads – Henry was with Jane Seymour at that moment. She was quiet for a while, her heart inside breaking at the thought that her husband was with his mistress when his wife was struggling for the life of their child and perhaps even her own life. Exposed upon this surface of silence, a thought struck her that she had never despised Henry before, but she supposed that there was the first time for everything. Henry had utterly and cruelly betrayed her and their love.

Lady Madge Shelton had informed the guards who had stood near the king’s chambers that she had needed to be urgently admitted to the king. She had planned to inform the king about the beginning of the queen’s labor by herself to avoid spreading panic at the palace. At the news that something had happened to the queen, the guards had allowed Madge to enter the king’s quarters. Madge had been shocked to see Henry dressed only in his night robe when he had come to her out of his bedroom, his expression furious that he had been disturbed. Then Madge had heard Jane Seymour’s voice coming out of the king’s bedchamber. Madge had notified the king about the queen’s labor and had left.

Anne wanted to throw a witty bark about her husband and his passion for amorous conquests, but then another wave of pain crushed at her. “Well, the king is the king, and all the ladies at the court belong to him,” she said after the pain receded. “Ladies are like flowers and men should treat them lovingly to let them blossom, as King François likes saying.” She laughed nervously. “Women – whores – make the life of their King pleasurable and richer in colors and adventures while their wives carry their children.”

Nan Saville bent her head down and whispered into the queen’s ear, “Your Majesty, please don’t hurt yourself,” she appealed, trying to distract the queen from painful thoughts and memories. “Please think about your child and about yourself.”

Anne’s expression was pained. “He doesn’t care for me and for his child,” she said in half a whisper.

Nan brushed a long strand of dark hair from Anne’s damp forehead. “He doesn’t deserve you,” she whispered. They were talking very quietly, so nobody could overhear them.

Next moment, a contraction followed. Anne’s next scream was shuddering and heartbreaking. “Does he deserve a love of any woman?” she inquired, her brow arched.

“No,” Nan asserted with conviction.

There were also the distant sounds, those which must have come from corridor as the people began to gather near the queen’s suite. Anne realized that the court was alight with the news about her labor: such news always spread like wildfire until every nobleman, every groom, and every servant girl knew that the queen Anne Boleyn would either fail today or would give birth to England's heir in hours. Anne could wager all the money and estates she had that everyone waited for the birth of stillborn child because she had gone into labor a month before the term. The excitement of Anne Boleyn’s defeat and the victory of Jane Seymour must have been raging throughout the walls of the Whitehall, she mused.

“Oh God!” Anne shouted as pain assailed her again, her voice shrill and terrified. “Oh God!” This time the delivery was too painful, more painful than it had been with Elizabeth, and it frightened her.

Suffering in agony and pain, Anne longed for the process and her pain to be over. She also realized that her current labor was different and more dangerous. When she had been giving birth to Elizabeth, she had felt some pain and it had started slowly, building to a peak and then slowly subsiding, having almost no pain between contractions. But this time the pain in her abdomen was as sharp as the tip of the sword that Anne could easily imagine being driven into her flesh. With every new contraction, the pain was becoming more unbearable, and it was building to its maximum height as Anne was trying to push over and over again. She knew that something was not right.

§§§

Even though it was against the standard rules and the royal etiquette as physicals never entered the room during childbirth, the midwife asked Doctor Linacre to come to the queen’s bedchamber and have a look on the Queen of England who was shuddering in convulsions and was heavily bleeding even in her unconscious state. Doctor Linacre agreed with Anne’s assessment which she had voiced before she passed out – Anne was really in labor. The doctor helped to stop the bleeding and forced the queen to wake up, so Anne could do everything necessary to bring the child into the world.  

Doctor Linacre was astounded that Queen Anne’s labor had started so early because she hadn’t showed any complications during her pregnancy, or at least he had never known about them. After the queen’s miscarriage a year ago, he had been worried about Anne’s health, and he had watched her carefully in the past several months since they had discovered that she had conceived again. Doctor Linacre had feared that Anne would be unable to carry the child to term, but the regular examinations hadn’t revealed any risks of miscarriage and any mild complications in the queen’s pregnancy. But now Queen Anne was undoubtedly in premature labor, and there was nothing to be done but wait and pray.

When Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, and George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, appeared in the queen’s quarters, they found Doctor Linacre there, together with several devoted supporters and companions of Anne Boleyn, like Lady Margaret Wyatt, Lady Lee, the sister of Thomas Wyatt. Lady Jane Parker Boleyn, Lady Rochford and the wife of Anne’s brother George Boleyn, was also there. Soon Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Henry Norris, and Mark Smeaton tried to enter the parlor in the queen’s suite, but they were denied access there. The small crowd gathered outside the chamber then.

Thomas Cromwell, the king’s chief minister, was also among the courtiers. His expression was unreadable, his eyes impenetrable. Anne was no longer his friend because of their disagreement about the Dissolution of the Monasteries and about religious reforms in general. Anne had even threatened to destroy him and send him to the scaffold some time ago. Anne Boleyn had outlived her usefulness for Cromwell, and if Anne had survived childbirth, he would haven plotted against her later to bring her down by any means he could devise. Knowing about the king’s growing affection for Jane Seymour, Cromwell had already decided that he would fabricate trumped-up charges of adultery and high treason against Anne. But now the chief minister secretly hoped that Anne Boleyn would die in childbirth, which would make his life much easier because he wouldn’t have to scheme against Anne then.

Each of them bombarded Doctor Linacre with questions about the reasons for premature labor and about the chance of the child’s survival. The medic replied that the risks of difficult childbirth with potential complications during the delivery were very high, and he also warned them that the child could be either stillborn or could die soon after the delivery because it was quite early for Anne to go into labor at this stage. Doctor Linacre also notified them about the danger of Anne dying in childbirth.

His expression twisted with fury, Thomas Boleyn voiced his displeasure that Anne had done something wrong and had gone into labor as a result. Anne’s father also screamed that Anne would better give birth to a healthy son and that they should pray for the child’s survival. There was no word said about his daughter’s survival, as if the head of the Boleyn family didn’t care for his daughter at all, and nobody dared say anything aloud to reprimand the man. With a scowl on his face, George Boleyn uttered a word of protest, but his father barked an order to stay calm and keep silent. After that, a grave silence reigned in the corridor near the queen’s chamber.

“Have the queen’s labor really started?” Thomas Cromwell broke the silence at last.

Thomas Boleyn looked at Doctor Linacre. “Can it be a false alarm?”

The physician shook his head in denial. “I am sorry, but I don’t have good news for you,” he responded sorrowfully. “I have no doubt that Her Majesty is already in labor.”

“Will Anne survive, doctor?” George Boleyn inquired quietly, sadness creeping into his voice.

Doctor Linacre sighed heavily. “I am sorry, but I cannot guarantee that the queen survives the ordeal.”

“The baby should survive, and it is the only thing that matters,” Thomas Boleyn spoke hastily but from the heart, about the things of primary importance to him, as well as to the Boleyns and the Howards, which he cared about most of all. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides in anger, thinking that Anne had been a complete fool to react so emotionally to Henry’s new act of infidelity with Jane Seymour; he had already learnt the truth from one of his spies in the queen’s household.

“The child will be born about a month before the term, and it will be probably weaker than a child carried to term,” the physician explained, struggling to keep his voice devoid of emotions. He was shocked that Thomas Boleyn seemed to be so indifferent for his daughter’s fate.

"I thought that some children survive even if they are born prematurely,” Thomas Boleyn pointed out.

“Some but not all,” Doctor Linacre remarked. He tried to talk to the queen’s father respectfully, but it was a difficult thing to do in the situation when the man treated his own daughter and all the more the Queen of England so indignantly. “We should pray for the survival of Queen Anne and her child.”

“Let’s hope for the better,” Cromwell interjected. He didn’t know whether he wanted Anne to have a healthy child because the birth of the healthy boy would mean that the Boleyns would become more powerful at the court even if Anne died in childbirth, and the minister didn’t need that.

Thomas Boleyn approached George Boleyn, and Mark Smeaton immediately stepped aside, giving the Boleyns enough space for some privacy. “Any child would better survive.”

George Boleyn sighed. “Even if it is a daughter, father?”

The Earl of Wilshire nodded. “Yes. If it is a girl and she survives, the king wouldn’t be as angry as he would be if the child dies. It would buy us some more time before Anne can conceive again.”

Viscount Rochford glanced away, his hands nervously clutching the collar of his doublet. “I hope so much that Anne and the baby will survive,” George said more to himself than to his father. He was disgusted with his own father for the first time in so many years. He was suddenly no longer afraid of displeasing him, or even of making him angry.

“It is only Anne’s fault that the baby can die,” Thomas Boleyn hissed between clenched teeth.

“Father, Anne can also die,” George lamented, noticing the look of anger on his father's face. “You heard what Doctor Linacre said: he cannot ensure us that she will be alright.”

“I care for the baby,” Thomas flung back.

George huffed in growing annoyance. “Father, Anne is your daughter. Don’t you care for her?”

“George, why in God's name are you so worried about Anne right now, when we can lose everything we have been fighting for so many years?” Thomas’ voice was a fierce whisper, yet still it felt as if it were echoing off the walls. “She has promised the king a son, and she must deliver a healthy and living boy this time. Otherwise the king can set her aside, and then we will lose power.”

George felt the icy chill of betrayal as he stared at his father, in whom he didn’t recognize the loving father he had once known. “I won’t disturb you anymore,” he said as calmly as he could, though angry emotions bubbled inside his chest. “Forgive me if I displeased you,” he added, giving his father a shallow bow out of necessary courtesy and quickly making his way towards Mark Smeaton. He didn’t want to stay in his father’s presence any longer.

“I am going to the king,” Thomas Boleyn notified. Then he turned around and headed to the king’s chambers, where Henry was waiting for the news about the progress of the queen’s labor.

Cromwell smirked. “The split-off among the Boleyns,” he said dryly. “Who could imagine that?”

Doctor Linacre shot a look of scorn to Cromwell. “Are you satisfied with that, master Cromwell?”

Thomas Cromwell looked closer, intently at the physician. “Mind your business, Doctor Linacre. Your job is to save the queen if the necessity arises,” he answered with a sarcastic smile.

After Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, had left the company, the crowd of the courtiers near the queen’s chambers continued growing. The people were whispering and hustling till the early morning, waiting for the news from the queen’s suite. Those, who were from the Boleyn faction, wore stressed and grim expressions on their faces, understanding how moderate the chances for the birth of the healthy child were; many of them were also worried about the queen’s fate. Some of them – the secret supporters of the Seymours and the former supporters of Queen Catherine – felt delighted and harmonious when it was veiled from the eye but pretended that they were worried; they impatiently anticipated the end of the Boleyns’ era with the death of Anne’s new child.

As the hours were slowly passing, King Henry was in his quarters together with Jane Seymour. Despite the queen’s unexpected labor, Henry was in good mood because he had just taken his beloved and precious Jane Seymour to his bed. After he had accompanied Anne to the queen’s chambers, he had found Jane Seymour in the corridor. Looking at Jane’s tear-stained face and her red-rimmed eyes, the king had realized without difficulty that Jane had been crying after the enraged Queen Anne had humiliated her, and he had felt obliged to alleviate Jane’s emotional pain. For some time, Jane had wept in his arms, and then they had walked to his chambers.

Henry hadn’t really intended to take Jane’s maidenhead on that evening. When they had come to his quarters, he had offered Jane some wine, thinking that it could have helped her relax. It should have been the most perfect day when the king had kissed his dear Jane for the first time, but Anne had come and had ruined everything. Jane had been frightened, and Henry had been angry as they had spent some time in his chambers in an ominous silence. Then Jane had begun to weep again, and Henry had again scooped the beautiful and virtuous girl into his arms. Trying to console Jane, the king had started whispering endearments into the lady’s ear, but Jane had only wept harder. They hadn’t noticed how they had ended up near the large bed, and then it had just happened.

Tonight, Jane Seymour had given King Henry her virginity, and he had taken her with pleasure and delight. Henry had no doubt that his young lover was a virgin because he himself had seen blood-stained sheets after he had entered her and then had gently made love to her. He had been as careful as he could have been, trying not to hurt Jane and using all his talents of an inevitable womanizer and an experienced lover to make their intercourse an act of passion and pleasure for his mistress despite her first time. Jane had returned his advances with passion, and Henry had appreciated her eagerness.

The fact of Jane’s undoubted innocence made Henry love Jane with more passion and more depth, thinking that the Seymour maiden had loved him so desperately that she had gladly given her most precious thing to the king even despite their unmarried status. Yet, a part of Henry’s heart didn’t like the fact that Jane had given in to his desires so quickly after he had started courting her. In contrast to Jane, Anne had vehemently rejected his offer to be his _maîtresse en titre_ , saying that only her husband would have her maidenhead. Henry believed that he had taken Anne’s virginity on the day of Cardinal Woolsey’s death when they had indulged themselves into a wild, passionate coupling in the woods. The king wasn’t aware that he hadn’t been the queen’s first lover: Anne had kept her affair with Thomas Wyatt in a grave secret, and the king wasn’t supposed to ever learn the truth.   

Now, when he looked at Jane’s flushed face and her timid smile, Henry started regretting that he wasn’t married to Jane because she surely deserved being his queen much more than Anne Boleyn had ever deserved that, but what was done couldn’t be undone. Jane, his sweet and dear Jane, had given him her heart, soul, and body, but he couldn’t marry her because he was already married to a woman who had caused him nothing but countless troubles in their tumultuous marriage. Jane deserved much more than he had given her, and he felt guilty that he had treated her as his other lovers.

After Henry and Jane had made love in the royal bed, they had briefly fallen asleep in each other’s arms until Madge Shelton had knocked at the door, asking the king for an urgent private conversation because of Queen Anne’s health. Growling and cursing that he had been disturbed by someone despite his strict order to leave him alone, the king had climbed out of the bed and had hastily put on his night robe. Henry had been rendered back to the harsh reality from the shameful bliss when Madge Shelton had told him about the queen’s ongoing labor; his spirits plummeted and became as glum and miserable as the winter weather outside. And everything had happened thanks to Anne’s temper.

Nan Saville knocked at the heavy oak door, and immediately heard the permission to enter. She could see King Henry lounging casually in a high back chair, his legs stretched out before himand feet up on other seat that stood next to him. Dressed in a light gray brocade gown cut in the French fashion which she disliked, Jane Seymour was sitting near the king, smiling at the monarch. Nan was relieved that Henry wasn’t dressed only in a robe and wore a purple doublet adorned with diamonds and sapphires above white silk shirt, his legs enveloped in black brocade trousers.

There was a half-empty bottle of red wine and two goblets of wine on the small walnut table, and a pile of cards lay there as well. Waiting for the news about his queen, Henry played cards with Jane who turned out to be a skilled gamester to the king’s utter surprise: he had always considered Jane undereducated as compared to Anne, and he hadn’t expected that Jane could play cards so well.

Nan Saville dropped a curtsey to King Henry. She bowed her head and looked down, on her shoes, not wishing even to rise from her curtsey and look at the king and his lover whom she despised as much as she had never despised any other woman before. She respected her king as her lord and sovereign, as well as the husband of her mistress and friend Anne, but the king’s behavior in the last months changed her attitude towards Henry. She thought that Henry’s actions were abominable because he dared sleep with Jane while his queen was fighting for her own life and for the life of their child.

“Your Majesty,” Nan greeted, her eyes still downcast.

“Rise, Lady Nan,” Henry permitted.

Nan straightened her spine. “Thank you.”

Henry stared at Nan Saville. “How long will Anne’s labor continue?”

Nan shrugged in uncertainly. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I came to tell you that it would take some more time, probably until dawn. The midwife doesn’t think that it will be a quick birth.”

“What is happening?” Henry asked, his voice sounding calm but edged with a note of anxiety. “The childbirth with Elizabeth wasn’t very quick, but I suppose that this time it should be quicker.”

Nan’s gaze locked with Henry’s, and she distinguished worry in the king’s eyes. She was pleased to see the sign of Henry’s emotional tumult. “Not every delivery is quick even if it is not a first child,” she said rhetorically. “Doctor Linacre and the midwife think that this time the delivery will be a difficult one.”

The king frowned. Despite their quarrel today, he was genuinely interested in his wife’s sufferings, fearing that there might be some complications in labor. To his surprise, Henry found himself extremely worried not only about his child, but also about Anne. He turned his head and stared at Jane, suddenly feeling sick of guilt that he had been with his lover while Anne had been heartbroken over his betrayal. He shook his head, as if he were trying to shake off the feeling of guilt that almost smothered him at the thought that he had been indulging himself into extramarital love affairs which had distressed Anne and had caused her premature labor. Suddenly, he didn’t wish Jane to be in the same room with him.

A deep frown of worry creased Henry’s forehead. “I hope that we will be able to avoid unwelcome surprises,” he said sincerely. “I don’t want something to happen to Anne and our child.”

Nan Saville nodded at the king, surprised by the genuine sincerely in his voice and his eyes. “I pray that Her Majesty will cope with all difficulties.”

Henry sighed heavily. “I pray everything will be alright.”

“May I return to the queen, Your Majesty?” Nan questioned.

“Of course, Lady Nan,” the king hurried to answer. “Please go and take care of the queen and the baby.” He trailed off, collecting his thoughts. “If you have any news, please visit me at any time. I want to know how the labor is progressing.” His voice sounded uneasy and anxious.

“I will,” Nan promised. She curtsied to the king, and then left.

King Henry swung his gaze at Jane, and his features splashed into a wide satisfied smile at the sight of her smiling face. Jane was not as seductive and graceful as Anne was, but she was beautiful in her own way: she was very lovely in her innocence and simplicity, in her shyness and sweetness. Submissive and meek Jane was music to Henry’s ears after all his scandals and hot arguments with Anne, after their constant bickering and absence of her obedience and submission to his will. Jane wasn’t as passionate as Anne was, and there was no fire in her, but Henry was slowly growing tired of Anne’s temper and even of Anne’s burning fire, and he needed a harbor from the hurricane of conflicting emotions he had in his marriage with Anne – he needed Jane.

Jane smiled timidly. “Your Majesty, everything will be alright,” she assured him.

Her words reminded Henry of Anne’s current predicament, and a smile was wiped out of his face. “Anne has gone into labor before the term, and I fear something bad can happen to her and to my son,” he voiced his concerns, not understanding that he had said that to the wrong person.

“Your Majesty, Queen Anne is a young and strong woman. She will cope with difficult childbirth,” Jane stated with fake confidence, though in reality she had a different opinion. “I am sure that soon Lady Nan will bring good news that Your Majesty has become a father of the healthy Prince of Wales.”

Jane looked down, on her bosom, at a large oval cut rubies and diamonds necklace that adorned her neck; it was Henry’s gift on the day when she had become his in soul and body, as he had told her. She regretted that she had allowed the king to take her maidenhead in the moment of weakness and vulnerability, after Queen Anne’s temperate tantrum had made her tremble all over in distress, like an autumn leaf in the wind. She was afraid of Anne Boleyn since she had started serving in the queen’s household as the queen’s lady-in-waiting several months ago. Every time, when Jane’s eyes met Anne’s, the queen’s piercing gaze made her almost shudder in fear at the thought of what Anne wanted to do to her. At times, Jane was sure that Anne Boleyn wanted her dead and that she would have murdered her if she could have done that without anyone discovering her crime.

Jane Seymour had become King Henry’s mistress, even though her family had taught her that she should have kept Henry at arm's length, letting him court her and declaring that her honor was the most precious thing in the world for her. But Jane had fallen in love with the handsome and powerful King who had noticed her among so many beautiful women at the court. She was immensely happy that Henry had fallen for her, and with every day passing it had been becoming more difficult to control her passions. Finally, Jane had given in to her desires because Henry had awakened in her heart a deep, sincere love and because she had wanted to be with him beyond any measure. 

Jane didn’t know what the new developments in her relationship with the king meant for her and for her ambitious family. She had done exactly what her family had prohibited her doing, and she was convinced that her brothers would have gone berserk with rage if they had known that she had slept with the king. Jane had lost a powerful weapon – her innocence; now she had nothing to keep the king’s attention to her humble personality, apart from her love she had professed for the king. She just hoped that no child would come out of her first time with Henry, because if it had happened, she would bring utmost shame on her family and on herself if it had become known to the world.

The prospect of becoming the Queen of England was an appealing thing for Jane Seymour. She had been shocked when her father and her brothers had suggested that she could become the queen, but over time, as the king’s affection for her was growing, she had begun to believe that she was destined to save England from the Harlot, to become the queen and the savior of the nation by giving Henry a son who would rule after him. She would have done everything to help Princess Mary Tudor be restored into the line of succession if she had been given such a chance, Jane swore. But Jane had probably ruined her chances to become the queen after today’s evening.

If only she had been less willing to be intimate with Henry, or if only she had masked her willingness, Jane thought. Anne Boleyn hadn’t always denied Henry being in her bed because they had married in secret when she had carried Elizabeth, the king’s bastard. So Jane also had a chance to become the queen even now if only Henry had set Anne aside. Jane liked the idea of Anne’s new failure driving the king to the brink of madness, when he would be so overwhelmed with anger that he would divorce Anne and then marry her. Jane didn’t wish the baby to die, but it suited her interests, so she didn’t mind if Anne had failed again, thinking that it would be Anne’s punishment for her mortal sins.

“Jane, we shouldn’t have been together tonight,” Jane heard Henry’s distraught voice that had snapped her out of her thoughts. “You should leave right now.”

Jane was disappointed that the king looked so worried about the Harlot. “Your Majesty, I can stay with you if I can make waiting time more pleasant,” she offered. “If only I can do something for you, I–”

The king interrupted his mistress. “You definitely can do something for me,” he responded almost rudely, in the voice that left no room for objection, as if even his first words were of paramount importance. “Don’t speak anymore and leave me right now. I don’t need you to be here.”

She blinked in amazement that Henry was treating her so harshly. “As Your Majesty wishes,” she said as she rose to her feet, then curtsied to the king.

“You and I should have been more discrete today,” Henry continued, feeling guiltier than before. “Then Anne wouldn’t have gone into labor.”

Jane rose from her curtsey, and put her hand on her mouth, shocked to hear such things from her royal lover. She was quiet for a long moment, contemplating the situation. “Your Majesty, you are the King of England, and you have a right to do exactly what you want and when you want that,” she said in a honeyed tone. “All your subjects must be ready to do everything to please Your Majesty.”

“We should have been more discreet,” he reiterated, his head bowed as if in defeat.

“Her Majesty will be alright,” Jane Seymour soothed, smiling lightly.

Henry lifted his eyes and looked at Jane attentively, feeling his heart suddenly turning petrified at the sight of Jane’s lovely face that had given him such a great joy in the morning of the same day. Now Jane was no more than a source of annoyance, and he wanted to remove her from his presence. “Jane, I don’t need your assurances which only the physician and God can give me now, if they can,” he snapped wrathfully, twisting his fingers as nervousness overcame him. “Leave and go to the chapel. Pray for the health of our Queen and of my son,” he finished with authority.

“With your permission, Your Majesty.” She backed away to the exit from the chamber.

“Please, don’t say anything about this evening to anyone, even to your relatives.” His voice was void of the warmth that had been present only hours before when he had been full of love and desire for Jane. “But I think the rumors will start spreading soon,” he assumed with undeniable regret.

Jane stopped rooted to the spot in the middle of the chamber, her chin lowered to her chest. “I will act exactly as Your Majesty wishes.” She couldn’t look at the king, feeling hurt by the rejection of her offer to be with him after what had happened between them. She didn’t understand why he didn’t want to stay with her after he had been so willing to ravish her with his caresses only several hours ago.

“Leave,” Henry croaked. Then he took a full goblet of wine and emptied it with one gulp.

Chagrin and embarrassment flooded through Jane, and she didn’t find an appropriate reply, wishing only to run away from the king’s quarters, yet not knowing where to go because she feared that her relatives had already known about her intimacy with the king. Madge Shelton had surely already told the queen’s ladies, and her family could have heard the rumors. She feared her relatives’ reaction as much as she hadn’t feared anything before.

Henry poured out another goblet of wine. “Leave finally, Jane,” he commanded as he brought the goblet of wine to his lips. “Get out of here. I have no time for you now.”

Jane gasped for air at the chillness in the king’s voice. The primitive and nameless fear was written on her face at the thought that Henry had probably discarded her right now, but she didn’t want that thought to settle in her mind. As she was going out of the room, she paused at the doorway, feeling tears splashing her cheeks. Her control was slipping away, and she would have gladly burst into tears of pain and despair if she had been alone at the moment.  

Jane Seymour brushed away tears that trickled down her cheek. “I am sorry, Your Majesty,” she murmured. Then she turned around and wanted to leave, but stumbled into Thomas Boleyn.

Boleyn shot Jane a fulminating look. “I beg my pardon, Lady Jane.”

“I am sorry,” she repeated. Then she ran away from the king’s chamber as fast as her legs carried her.

The Earl of Wilshire scanned the chamber, sighing inwardly at the realization that the king had bedded Jane Seymour. But then he swiftly understood that Jane Seymour had failed her family and had lost her innocence unmarried, and his cunning mind began to create a crafty plan how to use that scabrous circumstance, a sheer matter of luck, to the advantage of the Boleyns and the Howards.

Tomas Boleyn approached the king and bowed his head. “I thought that Your Majesty would probably want my company,” he said cautiously. “I can leave if you wish me gone.”

Henry shook his head. “Don't go. Stay with me.” His voice was low.

“As Your Majesty commands,” Thomas obeyed, a tiny smile quivering in the corners of his lips.

§§§

It was already late afternoon of the next day, but there was no progress in Anne’s labor. Nan Saville and Madge Shelton came out of the queen’s chambers several times, but every time the news was that they had to wait more. Once Nan Saville informed King Henry that the queen’s life was in danger but that they were doing everything to save the lives of the mother and the child.

The sun went in behind some clouds and left everyone jaded thoughts of very unpleasant nature because the more time was passing, the less hope the king and the Boleyn faction had for the positive outcome of Anne’s labor. The labor had already turned into eternity – it lasted during the late evening hours, the whole night and several hours until noon, and the environment was tense.

King Henry and his closest entourage waited in the king’s presence chamber. Although the chamber wasn’t located rather close to the queen’s suite, Anne’s screams of pain, more howls of pain than screams, were so loud that everyone could hear those bloodcurdling sounds going out of her mouth.

Dressed in blue satin luxurious court attire with sleeves of his jerkin slit from wrist to shoulder and showing a doublet beneath decorated with diamonds and pearls, King Henry sat in a high-back chair near the window, looking outside, into the royal gardens that were magnificent even in the winter. Henry was surrounded by Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, and by Anne’s relatives – Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wilshire, Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, and George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. All other courtiers crowded in the opposite part of the presence chamber.

For some people, the sounds coming from the queen's apartments meant only the potential failure to accumulate more power, namely for Thomas Boleyn and Thomas Howard. For some people, like George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, Mark Smeaton, and Anne’s other friends, Anne’s ear splitting screams were tantamount to the proclamation of Anne’s death in childbirth, and their expressions were twisted in pain. Others, mainly the supporters of the Seymour faction because the Seymour family could have never been in the same room with the Boleyns, turned their thoughts in the direction of the consequences of Anne’s new failure to deliver a son, which could mean the replacement of Anne Boleyn with Jane Seymour.

Looking at the sky from the window, Henry noticed that the winter sky was almost cloudless, which was rather unusual for this time of the year. He smiled at the sight of the lovely vacant sky, where only a few loitering clouds remained to greet his vision, thinking that perhaps it was a good omen and that Anne and his long-awaited Prince would survive childbirth and everything would be alright then.

Henry shuddered as he heard a new bloodcurdling scream that erupted from Anne’s mouth. He wanted to go into the queen’s chambers and help his wife with his presence, but he knew that it was against the rules, and he wasn’t sure that he would enjoy the sight of his less than beautiful wife writhing in pain on the bed. So Henry stayed in the presence chamber and waited.

The king’s entire being was gripped by the fear of losing his queen, and that fear clutched at his heart, forcing him to contemplate the situation that had led to such tantalizing moments Anne was going through. His heart had been filled with pain and guilt every time he had remembered what he had done to Jane just hours ago. Henry caught himself on the thought that his indiscretions with Jane Seymour had been the reason for Anne’s premature labor, and he again regretted that he had slept with Jane. He shouldn’t have left Anne in her chambers after he had taken her there: he should have stayed with his wife and should have assured her of his love instead of going to Jane.

But Henry Tudor wasn’t a man who could ever feel comfortable with blaming himself for anything. Even though Henry felt guilty of distressing Anne, he still blamed Anne herself much more than he blamed himself because she should have been able to control her emotions and reactions, as well as because she was just his queen Consort and had no right to dictate him what to do in his private life and how many women to take into his bed. If his queen was unable to perform her wifely duties, the king was entitled to take a mistress because he was the king and because his word was the law.

The king didn’t know what he would do with Jane after he had made her his in all senses. Henry still loved Jane and wanted to be with her, but the anxiety and worry he had discovered in his heart made him realized that he still loved Anne too. Henry was confused with his own feelings, not knowing whether he could have loved two women simultaneously or not. He also blamed not only Anne, but also Jane for Anne’s premature labor because Jane had smiled at him so sweetly, tempting him to invite her to seat on his knees and, thus, had coaxed him into kissing her. Henry told himself that he had slept with Jane only because she had tempted him to take an action by weeping in his arms and displaying her vulnerability. It was Jane’s fault that they had ended up in a bed.

Another hair-raising scream resonated, and Henry trembled all over, his hands were shaking. Charles Brandon leapt to his feet and went to the table, where he took an empty goblet and poured out some wine. Then Charles headed to the king’s chair, handing Henry a goblet and giving him a comforting, reassuring smile. In the past hours, Charles often gave Henry a goblet of fresh water or a goblet of wine, thinking that the monarch needed that to feel a little better. Henry and Charles didn’t talk; all other nobles in the room were as quiet as a tomb, and many of them were drinking wine too.

The king smiled back at his old friend, though his smile was a tenebrous one; then he sipped wine and continued staring into the window. Anne had been in labour for what felt like years, and the longer it continued, the more he blamed and not Anne for the danger his queen was currently in. The guilt the king had cast on Jane chilled him towards his sweet pale lover, and he even felt that he loathed Jane for her meekness and vulnerability. Anne was fiercely struggling in the process of delivery, and that thought sent Henry to see the vivid contrast between the meek and weak Jane Seymour and the strong and willful Anne Boleyn, the contrast that he could have measured by the extent of the change in his feelings that had just taken place – he realized that he loved Anne more than he loved Jane.

A loud scream coursed through the air, and Henry groaned aloud; his hand was shaking and the goblet tumbled to the floor. Charles Brandon approached the king and took the goblet from the floor, offering the king to fill another goblet for him, but Henry refused. As Charles’ eyes met Henry’s, the Duke of Suffolk could see the change of Henry’s feelings in the pain etched in his friend’s face and in the anguish in Henry’s eyes. The complications in the delivery of Anne’s child caused the secret wound of Henry’s love for Anne to bleed again, paining the king hour after hour and whenever he felt that his thoughts were straying too near the worst case scenario – the death of his queen and his son.

When the king heard another scream, he shut his eyes and dragged a deep, painful breath, his mind reeling. At the sound of Anne’s new scream, Henry was about to jump to his feet and run to the queen’s suite in order to learn the news about Anne. Several times, Henry had been ready to do that, forcing himself to keep his composure, but now it was too much for him to bear. Charles Brandon came to Henry and put a comforting hand on his king’s shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” Charles called gently. “Don’t go there. You won’t help Her Majesty.”

Henry looked at Charles with lifeless eyes. “Charles, it has already taken too long,” he whispered. “I fear that something bad can happen to Anne and our child.”

Charles saw the raw pain in the king’s eyes, and he had no doubt that Henry was still in love with Anne Boleyn, even if his passion for her cooled off considerably after he had started courting Jane Seymour. “Your Majesty… Henry,” he whispered in a personal manner, wishing to give him some comfort. “The queen is stronger than most women, and she will cope with the ordeal.”

The king smiled at his loyal subject, feeling that he had never been more grateful for support and hope to the man in front of him than he was at the moment.A bright idea of hope stirred his whole being. “Thank you, my friend. I pray to God you are right Charles, for it is in his hands now.”

As the servant brought the chair to the Duke of Suffolk so he could seat next to the king, Charles landed into his seat, his eyes never leaving Henry’s face. “Henry, there is no reason to think about bad things,” he said in an allaying tone. “The childbirth can take many hours.”

Henry’s eyes were full of deathlike despair, all his bleeding heart was in his frightened gaze. “I don’t want to lose Anne and our child,” he stated, his voice chocking with deep emotion. There was pain in his voice, in every word he spoke. “I can lose them both. I just cannot lose them.”

Charles Brandon sighed with frustration, thinking that the grip of Anne on Henry would never be loosened. Henry’s mental agony and despair reminded Charles for the first time of the great love and fiery passion which had once existed between the royal couple. “You won’t lose them, Henry.”

Sometime later, George Boleyn and Mark Smeaton began playing cards, while the others courtiers busied themselves with a dice game. There was some quiet but heated conversation that betrayed the impatience to get the news about the queen’s labor, which agitated each noble in the chamber. Thomas Wyatt came to Henry and Charles and politely offered them to ask the servants to bring some meal, but Henry refused to eat and drink. The king was neither thirsty nor hungry – he only wanted to go to Anne and stay by her side.

Next moment, Thomas Boleyn walked to the king. He stopped near Henry, bowing to him. “Does Your Majesty need something? May I help you somehow?”

King Henry shook his head. “I only want to know what is going on in the queen’s suite,” he answered.  “How much longer will it be? The labor began last evening, but it hasn’t finished yet.”

“Your Majesty, we should wait for the news,” Thomas Boleyn asserted, struggling to keep his voice steady because he was also very nervous, though for different reasons. It was true that he wanted Anne to give birth to a son and it was the mission of Anne’s life, he believed. Yet, there was a part of his cold heart that didn’t wish to lose his daughter in childbirth; but if they had to choose who would live, he would always vote for a child, especially if it was a boy.

“Everything will be alright, Henry.” Charles Brandon’s voice sounded persuasive tone. “You will see that soon one of the queen’s ladies would come here and give us happy news.”

Henry stared into the gardens, watching the crowns of the bare trees and wishing that the spring would come sooner to England. “Catherine had many pregnancies, but neither of her labor took as many hours as Anne’s labor has taken by now,” he said slowly, his voice edged with agitation. “Anne suffered one miscarriage, and she also suffered serious bleeding yesterday, which is not a good sign.”

Thomas Boleyn didn’t forget about Anne’s last miscarriage when something unknown had caused the death of the king’s unborn child; he had accused Anne of murdering the child then. “Your Majesty, Anne didn’t miscarry this time. She and the child are strong, and they will survive.”

Henry even didn’t look at Thomas as he spoke. “I pray you are right, Lord Wiltshire.”

“We should hope for the better,” Charles interjected, his eyes darting between Thomas Boleyn and King Henry. He hoped that Boleyn would leave soon because he loathed the older man.

“Let’s hope that soon we will get news.” Boleyn bowed to the king, and Henry waved a dismissive hand, permitting him to leave. He heard Brandon’s audible sigh of relief, cursing the Duke in his mind.

At the same time, inside the queen’s luxurious bedchamber, Queen Anne was still in labor, but the progress in labor was almost insignificant since the last evening. Anne thought that she would die in pain. She had never felt such pain before, and she instinctively knew that not everything was alright. Anne was pushing hard, gathering the rest of her strengths, doing everything the midwife instructed her to do, but she didn’t see that something improved since the beginning of her labor.

“Something is very wrong,” Anne murmured in a hoarse voice, her tiredness getting the better of her.

Lady Madge Shelton took the fresh cloth and brought it to the queen’s forehead, wiping cold sweat from Anne’s brow. “Your Majesty, you are doing so well. You just need to be a little more patient.”

Queen Anne wanted to answer something, but next second another contraction overcame her, stealing her attention. Anne gave another agonizing scream, feeling that she would be unable to continue pushing forever. “I feel that I am dying. I cannot push anymore. I just cannot.”

Hiding her dread behind her smile, Nan Saville brushed away the dark curls soaked in sweat. “Your Majesty, you must push to have your child born soon.”

Anne tossed her head on the pillow. “I have no more strength left.”

“No, Your Majesty, don’t say such things,” Madge Shelton pleaded, her eyes full of alarm.

Nan Saville squeezed Anne’s hand. “Your Majesty, you are a strong woman. You have to push,” she said insistently. “Soon you will have your beautiful baby boy in your arms.”

The queen let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “If my child and I died, Jane Seymour would be so happy.” She trailed off as she felt pain again. “This wench would gladly dance on my grave.”

“No, it won’t happen!” Madge cried out passionately. “You won’t die, Your Majesty.”

“It will never come to that,” Nan soothed Anne’s forehead again, using her free hand to wipe a drop of sweat from Anne's brow. “Come now, Your Majesty, you are doing so well just a little while longer.”

Anne grinned painfully. “This is a good lie in an attempt to calm me and inspire me to keep going.”

“Your Majesty, please try harder,” Nan said her voice remaining stoic and calm. But inside her heart was breaking because she feared that Anne’s words were correct.

“I hate this,” Anne whined as another wave of pain assaulted her body. As it lessened, she raised her head, fair skin seeming even paler from lack of blood. “I cannot do that anymore!”

The labor continued but the progress wasn’t achieved in the next several hours. The pain in the queen’s abdomen was so dreadful, more than unbearable, and Anne began to pray aloud for the survival of her child between contractions; her ladies prayed together with their Queen. As a new contraction came, Anne pushed her child out of herself with all her being, but nothing came out. They midwife and her ladies begged keep to keep going, and she was doing her best, knowing that she had to sustain the pain for the sake of her child if not for the sake of herself.

To ease her pain and to accelerate the process of childbirth, the midwife pushed up Anne’s chemise and rubbed Anne’s belly with ointment, but Anne didn’t think that it was particularly effective as the pain didn’t ease.  Soon Anne was so tired and so sweaty that she entire body was aching in pain, every part of her was terribly hurting, and her abdomen was burning. She tried to push more, but soon she was short of breath from pain, shouting at the midwife that she was suffocating and that she wanted them to open the window despite the winter outside. But, of course, nobody listened to her desperate pleas, but Nan Saville splashed some fresh water on Anne’s face to make her feel better.

Anne continued pushing again, but without success; then she almost lost her conscience as she felt the fingers of lethal sleep crawling under her skin. She heard lamenting voices of her ladies-in-waiting, but she didn’t see their frightened expressions. The midwife commanded Anne in a harsh tone not to sleep and recover her strength in order to keep pushing further, but Anne only shook her head, her eyes closed. Then the midwife slapped the queen across her face, giving Anne a heartfelt apology and again ordering to push. Anne did as she was ordered, and soon she lost the counting of minutes and hours.

After some time, the queen turned her head to the window, noticing that it was almost dark outside and understanding that that the day was slowly departing from one world to seek another. Anne’s ladies continued whispering prayers in English; two of them stood on their knees next to the large wooden cross that had been brought to the queen’s quarters at Anne’s request.

The labor had already completely exhausted the queen. “I cannot keep going,” she announced weakly, so quietly that her voice vibrated in her chest. Her heart skipped a beat and nearly collapsed in her thorax as a new wave of strong and sharp pain slashed through her. “I know that I will probably die, but please let my child live. Please save my child.”

“Your Majesty, take several deep breaths and try again,” Nan Saville coached her mistress.

“I cannot!” Anne shouted. “Such pain and no progress in labor. What is happening to me?”

Nan plastered a large and fake smile on her face, putting a hand on Anne’s forehead. “Your Majesty, just push. It will be over soon,” she said in the voice that utterly lacked conviction.

“Your Majesty, be patient,” the midwife advanced as she approached the bed. “Childbirth is always painful.” She placed her hands onto the queen's swollen stomach to feel the placement of the child. Then she sighed, praying to God that not everything was as bad as she had begun to think.

Anne huffed in irritation. “I know that something is not well.”

Nan Saville and Madge Shelton looked at the midwife with anxious glances. All other ladies also stared at the midwife in anticipation. Everyone knew that something was terribly wrong with their Queen.The happenings in the queen’s chamber were so alarming that the air seemed charged.

“Your Majesty must stay calm,” the midwife assured the queen. She was trying to remain as composed and even tempered as ever, though inside she was growing more and more alarmed.

Anne laughed through pain. “Does each of you think that I am a fool? I won’t cling to your gentle and encouraging words as a stupid child.” She laughed again. “I know that the baby is probably in a wrong position, and it can be the reason why the labor is not progressing normally and why it hurts so much.”

“Your Majesty, please don’t panic,” Nan said calmly, though her heart was in her throat.

“Regardless of the child’s position, you must push,” the midwife said sternly.

Nan Saville looked at the midwife, her eyes signaling that they needed to talk. Nan nodded, her nod barely noticeable, and she climbed to her feet, smiling down at Anne. Madge Shelton took Nan’s place and continued tending to their Queen who started writhing in pain as another contraction followed.

“What is going on to the queen?” Nan Saville asked the midwife as they stopped in the corner of the bedchamber. “Her Majesty pushes for many hours, but we even don’t see the head of the child.”

The midwife sighed. “It is explained by the inconvenient position of the fetus. The child is in a breech position. It may come out buttocks or feet first, which is bad in both cases. Usually, babies change their position and turn to a normal position – a head-down presentation – as they get closer to due date. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen on the queen’s case.”

Nan swallowed heavily, her expression frightened. “And what will happen to Her Majesty?”

The old woman looked thoughtful. “If nothing changes in the next couple of hours, soon Her Majesty will be utterly exhausted. She is already one step from falling unconscious,” she gave her judgment. “We can try to turn the child. It will be very painful and very risky as well, but it will be our only chance to save Her Majesty’s life and the life of the child.”

Nan was quiet for a moment, digesting the news. “Do you want to say that we will have to choose between the life of the child and the queen’s life?”

The midwife nodded. “Most likely.”

Nan Saville blanched. “Oh God!”

“I am sorry, Lady Nan,” the other woman answered. “I will do everything I can.”

“In this case we will need to know His Majesty’s decision.” Nan took a sharp intake of breath. Henry had waited for the birth of a healthy son for too long, and she feared to hear the king’s answer.

“Yes, you have to ask the king.” The midwife’s voice was very low and slightly shaking.

“I myself will go and talk to the king,” Nan said succinctly.

All the women nodded, and then Nan Saville stormed out of the queen’s apartments. The courtiers who gathered near the king’s suite almost attacked her and bombarded her with questions, but she didn’t reply and silently made her way through the crowd. She quickly hurried through the corridor to the king’s chamber. Her haste attracted much attention from the courtiers as she passed by them, not reacting to their questioning looks and looking only straight ahead, her face impassive.

Nan found King Henry and Charles Brandon sitting like two marble statues and staring into the garden; there was no other noble around them. As Nan entered the room, the deathly hush fell over the presence chamber, and everyone stood up, looking at the queen’s lady-in-waiting. Nan ignored them, giving a small smile to George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, and Mark Smeaton, who were apparently worried about the queen. Nan passed by Thomas Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, and Thomas Howard, not even bowing to them; she came directly to Henry, who was broken out of his thoughts by Nan’s arrival.

Nan curtsied to the king. “Your Majesty,” she began.

Henry dismissed her from her curtsey; it was not time for formalities now. He jumped to his feet and stared at Anne, his aquamarine eyes full of pain. “How is Anne?” he asked in a shaking voice.

“Your Majesty, I am sorry but I have no good news,” Nan informed, trying to speak so quietly that only Henry, Charles, and she herself could hear that. “There are unforeseen complications in the queen’s delivery. The labor is so difficult because the child in a breech position.”

Henry’s eyes widened, his heart racked by all-consuming fear. “What does that mean?”

Nan sighed heavily. “If there is no progress in the next several hours, we will have to try to turn the baby, which is very risky for the lives of the queen and for the child’s life as well.”

“Will it help?” Henry’s heart was weeping.

“Perhaps.” Nan’s voice sounded doubtful.

“And what then?” the words barely came out of the king’s mouth.

“If it doesn’t help, we will have to cut the child out of her belly,” Nan continued. “In this case, you will have to make a choice who will survive.” She paused, feeling a lump in her throat. “If you choose to save the child, then we will have to cut it out of Her Majesty’s womb. It will surely result in her death.”

“No,” Henry barely managed to say. Hislips wreathed with fear, and he turned white like death itself.

There were tears in Nan’s eyes. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but it may come to that.”

“Can you do something else to save Anne and the baby?” The king’s voice was barely audible.

“Doctor Linacre and the midwife think that cutting the child out of the queen’s womb might be our only chance.” Nan felt her eyes stung with tears, and she swallowed a sob.

“I don’t want to make this choice,” Henry said, tears coming to his eyes. “I don’t want to lose them.”

At that moment, King Henry wanted Anne and only Anne alive, not caring whether his child was alive or dead, that the future of England was at stake. Suddenly, he felt love for Anne reviving in his heart again, but this time he wasn’t burning in the whirl of passion for her, but was drowning in the ocean of despair. Anne Boleyn, his Anne, couldn’t die and leave him and Elizabeth alone, he persuaded himself. His brain refused to imagine such a great calamity befalling upon himself and England, but even in some distant part of his heart, without beginning to lament, he knew that it was a possibility.

Nan didn’t expect to see genuine tears of despair into the king’s eyes, and it warmed up her to the king; a tremulous smile appeared on her face. “I pray we won’t have to use this extreme measure,” she said. “I will come to Your Majesty for your final decision in several hours if nothing changes.” She curtsied to the king and hurried to leave, heading to the queen’s chambers.

Nan Saville walked out of the chamber, but nobody of the courtiers dared ask anything, even though every pair of eyes was attached to the king. The courtiers waited for the news, but the king’s horrified expression told them that everything was worse than they had perhaps expected. But the king didn’t speak, standing near the window speechless and frozen, looking into the emptiness of the chamber.

Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, had heard Nan Saville’s words. Understanding that Henry was unable to talk, he took the initiative upon himself. “Everyone should calm down! Queen Anne is alive!” he announced in a booming voice. “Pray for your Queen and for the child. Pray very hard.”

Henry made a step to Charles and pulled him into a friendly embrace. “Charles, Anne is dying,” he saidwith a heart-rending inflection in his voice. His head rested on Charles’ shoulder. “My child is dying too.”

Charles hugged the monarch tighter, his arm wrapped around Henry’s back. “I am so sorry, Henry.” He told the king the truth: he loathed Anne Boleyn, but he didn’t wish her dead.

“ _It is Jane Seymour’s fault_ ,” Henry said between gritted teeth. “ _It is only the whore’s fault_.” He also hated Jane Seymour with murderous hatred, wishing that Jane would have been dying in childbirth with their bastard child instead of Anne with his legitimate child.

Charles Brandon wasn’t amazed to hear such words from the king who always blamed others for his own mistakes and transgressions. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he feigned his agreement.

Henry wrapped his arms around Charles, his face still buried on the other man’s shoulder. “Jane was such a dear and lovely little creature, and I love her still. But if I lose Anne and my child or even one of them die because of Jane’s constant attempts to seduce me, she will pay a high price for her carnal sins,” he took an oath in a firm, rough voice. The hateful and morbid sound of his voice could made anyone creep towards the brink of a dangerous precipice and jump down in fear of being executed in the most brutal way. “I can destroy this slut and her family without a bat of eyelash.”

Charles bit his bottom lip to stop himself from reminding Henry of the fact that he himself had courted and had wooed Jane Seymour. But he knew all his words would be useless and he would only anger the king. “Your Majesty always knows what to do. You always do a right thing.”

“Jane and her family will pay if Anne dies,” the king repeated his threats.

Charles began making calming circles on Henry’s back. “Your Majesty, please calm down.”

The King of England and the Duke of Suffolk remained frozen in their tight embrace for a long, long time, and nobody dared disturb them. Even the queen’s family prudently stayed aside and didn’t disturb the king, knowing that any question would only enrage Henry. In the end, Henry drew back from Charles, who extended his hand to the king and helped him to seat into the armchair. The courtiers stared at Henry in anticipation, but the king brushed them off with a wave of his hand and roared that everybody must keep silence and pray for the salvation of Queen Anne and his son.

Charles brought more wine for Henry, who simply slashed the entire contents of the goblet into his throat. Henry and Charles continued sitting near the window until the sun had disappeared over the horizon. Soon the darkness was gaining upon the dusk of February, and soon a full moon hung heavy in the night sky over the quiet city. It was an hour before dawn when Henry made the first moment and awkwardly climbed to his feet, asking his best friend to accompany him to his quarters where they could wait for the news in a companionable silence, not being watched by the whole court.

Never before had King Henry felt lonesome because he had always been surrounded by many people who had always flattered him and had loved him as their lord and sovereign. Even when he had stayed confined to his chambers for a while, he hadn’t been oppressed by a sense of solitude because he had always craved for company of his old friends and beautiful women, rarely spending alone for more than a day. In his childhood, Henry had even liked solitude, and some of his most pleasant hours had been spent during the long rain-storms in the spring or in the autumn when he had seated near the window and had watched rain falling on royal gardens. But now Henry wished to bathe in the great ocean of solitude, which was his blessing and shelter from fear to lose Anne; he needed nobody close to him, except Charles Brandon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**The Queen's** **Death**

The night was chilly and gloomy, and the cold wind hit the city of London, blowing from the mouth of the Thames. Next morning, the sun rose, flushing the delicate flesh rosy colors in the cold sky above the city, and the day passed as quickly as a momentary flash of silver light. Then the sun was down, and the sudden night was again gathering fast, and soon a wall of solid darkness closed in upon the Whitehall Palace. It seemed that it would rain heavily later in the night as the mighty storm-clouds were parting asunder wildly over the whole horizon.

The Whitehall palace was quiet and gloomy as every lord and lady anticipated the end of the childbirth and probably the finale of Queen Anne’s life. Many hours passed, but there still were no changes in the queen’s state. The passage of long time turned the slight hopes of the Boleyns and the Howards, as well as of their supporters, extinguished, whereas the brightest hopes of the Seymour fraction almost piqued as the Seymour family and the former supporters of Catherine of Aragon waited to get the news about the Harlot’s death. There was nothing but tragedy in the air – mute, horrible, great tragedy, and the plangent, lachrymose music of death sounded in everyone’s ears.

Queen Anne Boleyn was still experiencing pains of childbirth, but she no longer howled in pain at the top of her lungs because she had no strength left in her weakened body. Anne passed out twice during the second day of her labor, and Doctor Linacre was called to arouse her from her slumber. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting were looking at the picture of the pale woman, who lay in the large royal bed, with grave eyes and with shuddering hearts. The labor had already lasted for more than twenty four hours, but the child wasn’t born yet. The ladies often left the queen’s suite to bring more bowls of fresh hot water and talk to Doctor Linacre who waited in the adjacent chamber.

Through the hours of darkness, in the nighttime, Anne Boleyn couldn’t even close her eyes because the pain never left her body. As soon as the new day broke, she continued pushing as the midwife instructed her, but the child didn’t wish to leave its mother’s womb. Anne was utterly exhausted as the labor had sucked all her strength not only from her body, but also from her heart and soul. Nevertheless, Anne was surprised by the violence of agitation that had overwhelmed her heart: the constant pain and absence of progress in labor destroyed the very idea of her calmness and composure, and a great weight of anxiety about the fate of her child lay upon her heart.

Nan Saville summoned Doctor Linacre into the queen’s bedchamber. The physician bowed to the queen who gave him a tiny, tense smile, and then strode towards the bed, motioning the midwife to follow him. Linacre and the midwife exchanged a couple of words, and then the physician explained to Anne in brief what they were going to do to try to save her life and the live of the child. Anne reacted calmly and nodded in agreement, even though inside she was shuddering in fear, afraid that she would be unable to endure a great pain that she knew would follow. Impressed by the queen’s bravery, Doctor Linacre assured Anne that he would do everything to change the baby’s position.

The midwife placed her hand on the queen’s stomach, feeling the baby inside and making some pressing movements on the naked flesh, and Anne gave a spine-chilling scream of pain. But they couldn’t give Anne any time to recover from pain shock, and the midwife leaned down, positioning both of her hands on the abdomen. As the old woman pressed as hard as she could, Anne screamed again because the pain was unbearable. The midwife continued pressing the queen’s stomach, trying to manually manipulate the baby into a head-down position. A scream of pain and terror erupted from the queen’s mouth, and then a dead silence followed; but then the midwife repeated her actions, and Anne screamed again.

Anne could feel the baby quickening inside of her body, its movements strong and frequent, and she smiled at the thought that her son was still alive. Then the midwife stepped aside, and Doctor Linacre advanced towards the bed. He placed his hands on Anne’s abdomen, and then he gave a verdict that a manipulation was successful and now the baby was in a right position. They gave Anne only some time to recover and gather her strength, and then the midwife ordered her to push.

“Now push, Your Majesty,” Doctor Linacre commanded. He didn’t go out of the queen’s bedchamber because the situation was already critical, and he was needed there. “You must push.”

“Your Majesty must push,” the midwife ordered, massaging the swell of Anne's stomach.

Nan Saville sat on the edge of the bed. “Your Majesty, take deep breathes. You must push hard.”

Anne shook her head slightly. “I cannot,” she whispered.

Nan took a clean towel and dabbed at the sweat on Anne’s forehead. “You have to push to save yourself and your child.” She managed a smile. “I know you can do that.”

“Your Majesty is strong, and you can do that,” Madge Shelton said as she brushed the strand of Anne’s hair and pulled it behind her ear. “You cannot give up now. Otherwise all of our efforts will be useless.”

Queen Anne was already so weak that she barely heard the faint whispering, audible among her ladies only a moment before; she could hear only those who sat on the bed and stood next to the bed. She looked up Nan quickly, and the strange weakness in her deep blue eyes and the soft peacefulness of her expression frightened the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting. “I will try,” Anne promised.

“Your Majesty, please push,” Doctor Linacre commanded, his voice firm and demanding, for he knew that if Anne didn’t gather all the strengths left, she and her child would both die very soon.

Queen Anne tried to think of Henry and the happy moments of their doomed romance which they had shared in the past. Something in the remembrance of their love story strengthened her to continue pushing faithfully and bravely, using the rest of her fading strength. Yet, her good memories were laced with the visions of Henry kissing Jane Seymour, and these harrowing images haunted her every night, reaching toward her with their fingers, imaginary and yet so real. She was suffering to the very depths of her heart. But she swore that she would bring the child into the world even at the price of her own life. She had to save her own child because England, Henry, and the world needed her baby boy alive. Death had stalked Anne and now was staring at her from all sides.

Anne felt that her life was nearing its end. She had wished death to come and take her to Heaven before she even felt the first pain of childbirth the day before yesterday, but she didn’t fear to die at all. Anne Boleyn was ready to give her life for her baby boy, knowing that her life wouldn’t be misspent because her beloved son would be the King of England after Henry’s death. The queen could see the spirit warnings of death in the wailing of the wind outside the palace, in the monotonous lamenting and prayers of her ladies-in-waiting, and in the pain that was racking her body. Anne didn’t cling to the feeblest consolations of Nan Saville and Madge Shelton – she only wanted her child alive and healthy.

The midwife and Doctor Linacre encouraged Anne to continue over and over again, and the courageous and strong queen did exactly as she was ordered. In half an hour, the midwife said that the labor began progressing well and that the baby would be born soon. Her head was swimming, dizziness had already overcame her, but Anne did everything automatically, enduring terrible pain and feeling as if death were spreading its hands over all the weakness and suffering of her tired body and bleeding heart. All at once, Anne suddenly felt as something had left her body, leaving it empty, and then she heard the loud baby wail at the full pitch, understanding that her poor child had finally been born.

“It is a boy!” the midwife proclaimed as she began swaddling the child. “He is alive and healthy!”

Doctor Linacre smiled. “Your Majesty, you did it!”

Dazed and blinded by tears, her vision blurred, Queen Anne distinguished only the outlines of the midwife’s figure. “Do I really have a healthy son?” she whispered, her voice bearably audible.

Nan smiled heartily. “Yes, Your Majesty. You gave England the Prince of Wales!”

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Madge Shelton said with a smile.

Anne smiled with a triumphant smile. “I want him to be named William,” she murmured, gathering all her strength to speak. Tears were trickling down her cheeks – tears of happiness that her son was alive and healthy, and tears of pain that she wouldn’t see him grow up. Her blue eyes became almost luminescent as she wept. “He will rule England as King William II after Henry,” she added.

Next moment, Queen Anne suddenly doubled over with pain, feeling her own hot and sticky blood flowing out of her at the speed of velocity. Anne saw the huge pool of blood beneath her body, which was rapidly increasing in its size and soaking the bed sheets. A smile of dark irony mingled with infinite sorrow, flitted and faded from her face: she had given birth to the future King of England and was destined to pay with her life for that, but she didn’t regret her fate. Anne could feel and hear the music of death in her blood and in her entire body, but she didn’t care that death was so close to her.

Nan Saville was unable to fight down the panic that had swept over her at the sight of blood. “What is going on? What is happening?” she blurted out, her eyes darting between the queen’s body and the physician. “Doctor Linacre, please help the queen! Please save Her Majesty!”

Madge Shelton gasped for air. “Help Queen Anne! Please, help her!”

The midwife had given the baby to one of the queen’s ladies, and then she was near the bed in three strides. “Queen Anne has substantial bleeding. We have to stop it now.”

The thinner, higher voice of Doctor Linacre rang out across the bedchamber. “Bring more bowls of fresh water and my medical bag from the adjacent room! I urgently need medical instruments!”

Queen Anne was writhing in agony on the bed, and Doctor Linacre tried to restrain her movements, assisted by Nan Saville and Madge Shelton. For a short time, the physician talked almost incessantly to the queen, assuring and reassuring her that she would be alright, but Anne only shook her head in denial and laughed bitterly in response. Blood continued to flow out of the queen’s body, but Anne only smiled to herself, not listening to the physician’s encouraging talk. The queen’s smile was peaceful and resigned, for she had long felt that she would die today. The queen’s sacred blood, the symbol of her great sacrifice, was on the bed and on the floor, and Anne’s clothes were drenched with blood.

Anne smiled, looking into Nan Saville’s grief-stricken eyes. “Nan, promise me that you will look after William and Elizabeth after I am gone,” she requested.

Nan shook her head in denial of the grievous reality. “Your Majesty, please don’t speak so.”

“Nan, please promise me,” Anne insisted.

Nan took Anne's hand in hers. “Your Majesty, I swear I will look after and love your children as if they were my own,” she forced the words to come out of her mouth.

Anne smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Panicked, Madge Shelton looked at the queen. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty…”

“Henry,” Anne whispered. Her gaze lingered at Madge. She wanted to speak to Henry while she still was alive and was able to speak; there were certain things she needed to tell him before God called her to Heaven. “Madge, ask the king to come to me while we still have time.”

At the same time, King Henry remained in his quarters, with Charles Brandon by his side. He couldn’t spend more time with anyone else, and solitude was just then welcome to him. The king was walking slowly from one side to the other of the chamber, silent and sullen, but at times he talked to himself. Henry had never been so worried about Catherine of Aragon when she had given birth to their several children who had all died several hours after their birth or had been stillborn. During the past hours, he felt quite lost and helpless twenty times a day, and his agony only increased in the nighttime.

Henry didn’t go to bed, and he spent the whole night sitting near the fireplace and staring into the flames. Charles Brandon stayed with his friend, offering him to play chess or game of cards for distraction, but the king refused the friendly offer. Through the long unsolaced agony of that dreadful night, no relief came to Henry because there was no positive news about Anne. The king sent his page to the queen’s apartments, hoping that someone would tell him at least something, but every time the young boy returned with information that they had to wait more.

When he heard the distant sounds of the loud, heartbreaking screams of his queen, the king sank to his knees before the wooden cross and began to pray desperately, begging God to spare the lives of Anne and their unborn child. He heard Anne scream over and over again, and he continued praying. Only those agonizing sounds filled his ears, and his heart was tearing apart at the thought that Anne was suffering so much because of the shock and distress she had been exposed to after she had seen Henry and Jane kissing. At such moments, Henry felt his heart swell with hatred for Jane, together with the bitterness of the guilt of his own contribution to Anne’s premature labor and torments. Soon the queen’s moans became quieter, he kept praying harder and harder.

The page knocked at the door and notified the king that Lady Madge Shelton had come. Henry immediately ordered to let her in, his heart beating faster in fear. Madge Shelton was shocked to see the high and mighty King of England look worn-out and exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. As she sank into a curtsey, the king dismissed her from formalities, and then he almost ran to where she stood; Charles Brandon also stood up, his eyes attached to Madge.

“How is the queen?” Henry demanded the answer.

Madge Shelton swallowed heavily. “Her Majesty wishes to speak with you.” Her voice was shaking.

Henry’s expression evolved into panicked terror. “Is Anne alive?”

“Her Majesty gave birth to a son, but she is having heavy bleeding,” Madge whispered, her eyes tear-stained. “Doctor Linacre is not sure that he will be able to stop it.”

Charles emerged at Henry’s right. “Holy mother of God!”

“Is my son alive? Will he survive?” Henry managed to whisper.

Madge nodded. “Doctor Linacre says that the baby boy is healthy despite being born prematurely. He doesn’t expect the child’s death.” Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she blanched. “But Her Majesty’s life is in grave danger. There is so… much blood there…”

King Henry couldn’t take it anymore. He stormed out of the chamber and ran to the queen’s suite as fast as his legs carried him. He could think only about his Anne who was possibly dying at that very moment. Henry was happy to learn that Anne had finally given him a male heir, but the joy of the moment was ruined by the fact that he would possibly lose his wife. The king couldn’t deny that he had wronged Anne by cheating on her with Jane Seymour, but if Anne had died, there would be no way to have his transgressions and wrongdoings remedied tomorrow. Everything would have been right if Anne hadn’t discovered him with Jane Seymour and hadn’t been so distressed. But Henry was stubbornly trying to dissociate himself from the guilt of tempting and seducing Jane.

The daily noises returned to the palace, but the general environment was still grim because the news that Queen Anne was possibly dying had already reached the ears of the courtiers. On that morning, the courtiers didn’t play and eat, like it had happened on the previous morning when the situation hadn’t been so serious yet. As some of the courtiers saw Henry running through the corridors of the palace, they understood that they would have to face the tragedy soon. There were not many people in the corridors because many courtiers attended morning Mass, praying for Anne’s successful delivery.

Only a few courtiers stood near the queen’s chamber, including Thomas Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Howard, and George Boleyn, and Anne’s other friends. They bowed to the king respectfully, their expressions solemn and reserved. The cold and ambitious Duke of Norfolk and Earl of Wiltshire didn’t want Anne to die right now because elementary political calculation proved that it would be better if she survived to be able to give the king another son, a Duke of York. But the smallest soft part of Thomas Boleyn’s heart was still affected by the danger his daughter was currently in, and he hoped that she wouldn’t die.

George Boleyn and Anne’s other friends were genuinely aggrieved with the news about Anne’s fading life. Lady Jane Boleyn was also there, standing next to her husband, but she was indifferent to the queen’s fate because she had never liked Anne Boleyn. There was also a man who wished Anne dead with all his being and whose spirits soared high up into the Heavens like never before at the news of the queen’s upcoming death – he was Thomas Cromwell, who was already planning how he would arrange luxurious burial for his mortal enemy; Anne was better dead in childbirth than alive and playing on his nerves every day.

Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wilshire, smiled with a satisfied smile. “Your Majesty, you have a healthy son.” His heart pounded harder at the thought that he would be the grandfather of the future king.

“England and the House of Tudor finally have a male heir!” Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, said in most cheerful tones, a sly smile hovering over his lips.

Thomas Cromwell smiled, but it was a reserved, cautious smile. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” the king replied mechanically. He even didn’t look at them, and entered Anne’s suite.

George Boleyn laughed with a tragic laugh. “Father, have you forgotten what is happening right now?” he challenged, a touch of deep loathing creeping into his voice. “Will you ever change? Your daughter is dying, but you care only for yourself and the family’s interests. You are ready to sacrifice everyone, even your own children, if it means that the Boleyns will accumulate more power.”

Thomas Boleyn looked furious. “George, how dare you talk to me in this way? How dare you–”

George cut him off sharply, not intending to listen to his angry speeches. “I dare say that because it is the truth,” he shouted, his eyes blazing with anger as his gaze locked with his father’s. “Anne used to be your favorite child. You loved and pampered her much more than Mary and me.” He took a step towards the old man. “What happened when your children grew up? You began to use us as pawns for your dirty games and political plots to earn power.”

“Stop it right now,” Thomas Howard intervened. “It is neither time, nor place for quarrels.”

“Shut up, George,” Thomas Boleyn hissed.

George wrinkled his nose in disgust. He ran his eyes over his father and his uncle, and unutterable loathing seized his heart. “The air reeks of the rotten Boleyn flesh,” he said in a hissing tone, like a serpent preparing to strike its victim. “I will better leave and wait for the news in my suite.” He started walking, but then abruptly turned back towards his father. “Father and uncle, your hearts are the coldest place on earth. I am ashamed of being related to both of you.”

Then George Boleyn turned around and strode forward, without bowing and saying anything else, wishing only to escape from the wretched presence of his relatives. Mark Smeaton, Henry Norris, and Thomas Wyatt bowed to Thomas Boleyn and Thomas Howard; they felt only chilly disdain towards George’s relatives, but had to mask it with fake politeness and courtesy. Jane Boleyn smiled at the sight of the furious faces of George’s relatives; she was impressed by George’s speech very much because she didn’t expect that her husband would ever rebel against his father.

Thomas Boleyn and Thomas Howard were literally spellbound, frozen in shock from George’s speech and abrupt departure. If they had heard footsteps behind them, they couldn’t have turned round, and they couldn’t see Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, standing near the queen’s chambers. Charles cleared his throat, and the two older men turned around, their eyes locking with Suffolk’s. If a way of escape had been miraculously provided for Boleyn and Howard, they would have moved to take advantage of it in order not to see Charles Brandon’s sneering face.

Charles Brandon bowed to the two men. “I didn’t think that Lord Rochford would ever make a move against you,” he spelled out slowly, as if tasting every word. “I applaud him for his courage.”

“Your Grace, don’t meddle in our deals,” the Duke of Norfolk recommended, his eyes cold. There obviously was a note of danger under his silken voice.

“It is out of your business, Your Grace,” the Earl of Wilshire muttered, his cold eyes blazing with hot anger and festering hatred. “You shouldn’t quarrel with us.”

The Duke of Suffolk smiled nonchalantly. “Don’t try to intimidate me. It is not in your interests.”

The three men didn’t see Jane Seymour who was standing in the dark alcove, where she had been hiding for a while watching King Henry and his closest entourage. She had already understood that Queen Anne was dying, and blamed herself for distressing her rival. She had loved Henry and she had wanted to be the Queen of England, but not at the price of Anne’s life. Jane was flattered by the king’s attention and loved the idea of replacing Anne on the throne, but never had she fantasized that her amourette with Henry would lead to the queen’s death. She was sick of guilt.

Jane had returned to the luxurious chambers, which were now occupied by the Seymours and which had previously belonged to Thomas Cromwell. Her father and brothers had already heard the rumors that Jane had been in the king’s chambers when Queen Anne had gone into labor: they had quickly realized that Jane had given the king her maidenhead. Jane’s father John had beaten her, screaming at her that she had ruined the family’s chances to be elevated to the station of royalty; Edward Seymour had slapped Jane twice across her face too. Jane had found her solitude in the winter gardens, but it had been too cold there, and she had returned to the palace. Not wishing to go back to the apartments of her family, she had ended up in that dark alcove where nobody could have seen her.

Trembling all over, Jane lowered her eyes and looked at the necklace Henry had given her. Suddenly, she felt empty and wasted inside; she had never felt as _hollow_ as she was feeling at that moment. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I don’t need this symbol of your _hollow love_ ,” she whispered to herself. Then she removed the necklace from her neck and threw it away on the floor. “You love the queen as much as you love me.” She felt tears trembling on her lashes, and she blinked them away. “You should have loved your wife, not me, and I should have never given in to my passions.” Then she turned around and slipped from the alcove, intending to go somewhere else to elongate the moments of quietude before facing the finale of the day – Queen Anne’s death and the disgrace of her family.

King Henry opened the door to the queen’s suite with trembling hands. The loud cries of the newborn filled the chamber, and he could see Madge Shelton cradling the child in her arms, trying to calm the baby and singing a lullaby to him. Henry stared at his son as if mesmerized, wishing to take the boy in his arms and cradle him instead of Madge. But then Doctor Linacre approached the king and bowed deeply in respect, and Henry noticed the man’s solemn expression. The muffled sounds of someone weeping came out of the queen’s bedchamber, thundering savagely in Henry’s ears, and that made him look at Doctor Linacre with an impulse of mortal terror.

“Her Majesty is still alive, but she doesn’t have much time left,” Doctor Linacre’s firm voice said. “We have done everything we could, but we cannot stop bleeding after the difficult and traumatic delivery.”

Henry’s heart started beating to suffocation. He feared to ask the question that was on his tongue. “How long does she have?” His voice sounded distant, very distant, as if it didn’t belong to him.

“The queen’s bleeding is very heavy, and the queen is already very weak. You have little time left for farewell,” the physician notified, his eyes and voice apologetic. “I am so sorry, Your Majesty.”

Henry clutched the doctor’s shoulder to steady himself. “Is it really true that Anne is dying?”

“I am sorry,” the old man repeated.

Henry gave a nod. “Thank you.” Then he made a step forward, towards the bedchamber. Never before had he thought that a man suffer so much from the impending loss of his wife. His mind was in a great turmoil, and he couldn’t tell where the pain started and ended – the threads of pain were entwined in his consciousness and in his entire life, scraping and pulling at the edges of his sanity. But there were some fresh forces churning up inside him at the thought that Anne was still alive and that he at least had a chance to see her again at least once in his life.

§§§

King Henry entered the queen’s bedroom, and the ladies dropped curtsies. Some of Anne’s ladies were holding many blood-stained sheets in their arms, while others gathered near the queen’s bed in a circle. Henry could hear Anne’s weak and quiet voice speaking farewell words with her ladies, who were sobbing, two of them almost uncontrollably. Madge Shelton wasn’t inside the chamber because she had been busy with the child: the baby’s cries subsided as she was cradling him in her arms.

Henry felt his heart thumping loud in his ears as he approached the bed where Anne lay. His heart skipped a beat and nearly collapsed at the sight of the ghostly pale and vulnerable Queen Anne Boleyn. Her long, dark hair lay tangled on her shoulders, and her face had assumed a strange fixedness and even stranger tranquility. Her deep blue eyes, which had challenged Henry for a fight so often and where he had seen the unquenchable fire of passion burning for him and only for him, were now gentle and soft, so soft and so tender that they seemed almost unnatural, unearthly.

Queen Anne was the first one who noticed the king. She was glad that he had come because she didn’t have much time left. “Henry,” she whispered, feeling weaker than a couple of minutes ago. She smiled at Henry, and he thought that her smile was like a smile of a dying beauty.

The ladies-in-waiting stopped speaking and turned around. They curtsied, but Henry quickly dismissed them and barked an order to leave him alone with his queen. The women hurried to leave the chamber, letting the king to have his farewell with the dying queen.

“Anne,” Henry murmured, giving her a small smile.

Anne Boleyn smiled at Henry Tudor. “Come to me, Henry. She beckoned him to come closer to her.

The king advanced forward, his heart thundering fiercely in his chest, almost bursting out of his thorax. Henry looked on the bed, on Anne’s motionless body wrapped in the dazzling white sheets soaked with her blood. As his gaze fell on the huge pool of blood on the carpeted floor near the bed, Henry felt numbness overpower his entire being at the thought of how much blood Anne had already lost. Fear gained more and more mastery over him as his entire being began to realize the magnitude of the damage childbirth had caused to Anne and the inevitability of the tragedy.

Henry landed on the edge of the bed, taking Anne’s hand in his. “Anne, you have to live!” he cried out, his voice full of despair and shock. “You cannot die now! You cannot leave Elizabeth, our son, and me!”

The queen shut her eyes, feeling death entering every part of her being. “Henry, we cannot control death,” she murmured. “God is calling me to Heaven. My time on earth is over.”

The king gazed down at her. “Anne, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

Anne’s eyes suddenly flung open; her face was ghostly pale. “Henry, I gave you a son as I promised years ago.” She managed a small smile, gazing into his eyes. She was going to tell him something before her death. “You cannot say that I didn’t fulfill this part of our bargain.”

Henry looked abashed. “Anne, what are you talking about?” He trailed off, gathering his composure. He didn’t understand why she talked to him in this odd way. “I married you because I loved you and chose you to be my wife! I tore my kingdom apart for you! I fought with the whole world to marry you!”

“Henry, I have always been grateful to you for the honors you bestowed upon me and my family.”

“Then I don’t understand what you mean,” Henry retorted. His face lost its usual calmness, betraying the emotional tumult in his mind. “I have given you everything I could!”

Anne scoffed. She would have laughed at him at the top of her lunges, until tears would have come to her eyes, if she weren’t so weak. “Once you told me that you can drag me down as quickly as you raised you,” she retorted back. “I haven’t forgotten about that.”

The king was seething with anger, but he was trying to control himself. “Anne, I would have never done anything to hurt you,” he assured her, stroking her hair that fell handsomely on her forehead.

The queen gave him a wicked smile. “You don’t know that, Henry,” she parried.

“I know that, Anne.”

“No, you don’t,” she persisted. She didn’t feel even a mere delight at his touch to her hair and to her face at that moment; it was so strange for her that Henry’s words and his touch left her heart _hollow_. “You could have easily replaced me with this wench Jane Seymour even after I gave a son.”

“I would have never done that,” he growled. His mouth twisted with the effort it was taking to hold back his emotions because he craved to lash out at her in the response to her accusing words.

"Too much blood," Anne muttered to herself. She cringed in disgust, feeling the shot, sticky liquid between her legs and on her thighs. “So much blood.”

Henry looked frightened. “Anne…”

The queen forced a smile. “I am fine, Henry. Now I feel much better than I felt when I saw you and that wench kissing,” she taunted; her voice sounded weaker. “I don’t care that I am dying because it is better to give you a son and die in childbirth now. I don’t want to watch you lavishing attentions and caresses on your lovers whom you change as often as you change your clothes.”

The king’s handsome face contorted in anger. “It is Jane Seymour’s entire fault,” he said, notes of fury leaking into his voice. “I will make her pay for what she did.”

Anne let out a deep sigh of regret. “You will never change, Henry. I really think that it is very good I won’t see what will happen to you in the years to come,” she said sorrowfully. “You think you can punish everyone, perhaps even send them to the scaffold, if you only wish that because you are the King of England and all others have a duty to please you and satisfy all your whims.”

Henry took his hand away from Anne’s face. “Anne, you have no right to talk to me in this way,” he said between clenched teeth. “I am your king, and only then your husband.”

She gave him a fake smile. “I have heard it so many times that you don’t need to remind me of that.”

Queen Anne looked at King Henry, but she didn’t see the same man she had once fallen in love with. Anne realized that her life with Henry would have been a living hell even in spite of her giving him a healthy male heir. If she had survived, Henry would be stuck with her until doomsday, and she would have to tolerate his infidelities while he would be demanding more sons from her. If Henry had fallen in love with a young and beautiful woman, he could have forced Anne to agree to divorce. The king was the Head of the Church of England, and his word was the law in England after the break from the Roman Catholic Church. Anne didn’t want to be cast aside for a younger rival, to be humiliated in the eyes of the whole world – death was a better option.

Anne Boleyn and Henry Tudor of old times had died, and now only the two new people were looking at each other. But Henry had a future ahead of him, while Anne was doomed to die today very soon, leaving her two young children motherless. Anne Boleyn didn’t want to have a long life in her dreadful marriage to Henry, and she welcomed death with open arms. But Anne didn’t regret that she was destined to die quite young, and she welcomed death because it was a better alternative than being slowly destroyed by Henry’s unfaithfulness and having her love destroyed in the very end by her own husband. Her death would be a hard lesson for Henry, she knew that and she reveled in her thought.

Anne smiled to herself, surprised where her train of thought was going. She thought of how many good consequences her death would have for Henry and England; she was calculative even on her deathbed. The common people would finally stop hating her and would see her as the savior of the nation who had given them the healthy prince at the price of her own life. Catherine of Aragon had lost many children and had given birth only to one healthy daughter, while Anne had died in childbirth giving England the Prince of Wales – such thoughts were warming Anne’s dying heart. Anne was also sure that the rumors about Henry’s indiscretions with Jane Seymour would spread at the court and most likely even among the common people, and it would help her improve her postmortem reputation. Perhaps Anne would be considered a poor woman who died in childbirth because of her husband’s indiscretions.

Henry was emanating fury, hardly able to keep his temper at bay. “You have no right to say this.”

Anne shot him a contemptuous glance. “Henry, my love, you claim that you gave me everything you could, but you are so mistaken because you are blinded by absolute power you have and by your love for yourself,” she supplied calmly. “You didn’t give me your heart because you gave it to Catherine of Aragon, to Eleanor Luke, to Jane Seymour, and to many others whom you bedded.”

“Sweetheart, please don’t waste your strength on quarrels. Please–”

She eyed him half sympathetically and half disdainfully, thinking that she was absolutely right in her woesome conclusions but not feeling offended, or even hurt. She was already beyond caring because she was dying. “Henry, you may love me, but you also love too many other women,” she whispered. She inhaled in a deep, reckless breath, feeling the last ounce of her strength fading away together with blood that continued flowing out of her body, and she had to gather all her strength to speak.

“Oh, Anne, my own sweetheart, you cannot leave me,” Henry said in a trembling voice. Tears sprang into his eyes. “I love you so much, Anne. I have always loved you and only you.”

Anne shook her head in misery. “If you care for me, then why do you need so many lovers?” She felt tears trickling down her cheeks. “Don’t you see that it breaks my heart to see you love others?”

King Henry was deeply touched; fresh tears leaked from his eyes. “Forgive me, Anne. Please forgive me for everything bad I have ever done to you.” He took her hand in his and kissed her palm, shocked how cold Anne’s skin was, as if death were already inside her. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“Do you really love me?” she breathed every word.

Holding her hand in his, Henry looked at her. “I love you so much, Anne.”

Anne gave him a dazzling smile. Yet, she didn’t believe that he had loved her as much as he claimed, but it didn’t matter anymore. “I love you too, Henry. I always have.” Her face was serene, and there was no disappointment she had gotten accustomed to feel in her marriage. Her voice sounded silvery and pure, sweeter than ever in sadness and in grief because she didn’t fear death. “I love you, even though your love left me _hollow_ so often, more _lifeless_ than death would leave me, my love.”

His face transformed into a look of shocked disbelief that she said those words to him, his gaze cloudy with inner torment and guilt that almost smothered him. “I am so sorry, my love.”

She chuckled. “Love our dear children – Elizabeth and William – as much as we both would have loved them,” she demanded. “I have named our son William, if you don’t object.”

“I like this name, sweetheart,” he confirmed, his eyes shining with tears.

Anne gazed into Henry’s aquamarine eyes, naked emotion of anguish and affection dancing across her features. “Can you do something for me, Henry?”

“Whatever you want, Anne.”

“Kiss me one last time before I die.”

Henry cupped her face in his hands and kissed Anne in her lips. It was not a soft kiss but a fierce and possessive kiss. They clung to one another like two desperate children lost in a forbidden forest, like they had once clung to each other in the forest on the day of Cardinal Wolsey’s death. Her lips, dry and bloodless, were softening and molding beneath the firm warmth of his lips kissing and ravishing hers. Despite her weakness, Anne responded to the assault of his mouth and put all her fire into one single kiss to let Henry remember that all the passion she had once felt for him, hoping that God would grant her a little more time because she needed some strength for another kiss.

Henry’s hand tightened into her hair; his other hand was at the nape of her back. “I love you, Anne,” he said. “I love you so much.” He saw tears in her eyes that were almost translucent at that instant.

Anne gave him a ghost of a smile. “Nobody will ever kiss you like me, Henry,” she murmured, a charming grin on her pale face. Then her smile perishedwith the sorrow that plunged into her heart, and her lips curled in a venomous smirk as she added, “There will be other women in your life, and you will love. I am sure that you will re-marry soon, but nobody will ever love you as much as I do love you.”

The king looked at his queen, his eyes brimming with tears. “I love you,” he reiterated.

Henry shifted on the bed and took Anne in his strong arms, not caring that his own clothes were getting soaked with blood. He kissed her like a loving husband and a passionate lover, his kiss hot and deep, his hands sliding down her back and pressing her against his chest. He could feel Anne’s lips parting, and his tongue started dueling with hers.

Anne responded to his kiss, already feeling the angel of death caress her skin and the lethal fog grid her from all sides. The kiss was a long and passionate one, and Henry felt as if he were sucking life out of Anne, but he couldn’t remove his lips from hers because it was the kiss of abandonment, the kiss of love, the kiss of passion, the kiss of glory, and the farewell kiss.

Soon Anne stopped responding to Henry’s kiss, and her slender body went limp in his arms. Her heart collapsed, and she shut her eyes forever. The blackest darkness was swirling around her with a hellish persistence, the sweet, lyrical rhythms of death drumming in her temples and in her veins. Someone was slowly emerging from darkness, but Anne was still instinctively trying to grope for a shred of light, but darkness was too thick and wasn’t going to dispel, and she continued falling into an unfathomable void. Her fall into nothingness sent a shudder of pure terror through her entire being, but then an absolute frenzy of relief flooded her as death crossed her path and wandered on.

Anne saw shadows dancing in the light of Heaven. Then the goddess of death who extended her hand to her and smiled at her, and the queen took her hand, letting the divine creature lead her to her new immortal life in Heaven. Everything was whirling in her head, and darkness was swiftly enveloping her. Anne earnestly surrendered to the dizzying torrent, drowning in blankness and feeling nothing more. Then there was the light of Heaven around the goddess and the queen, the light was growing stronger and brighter, and Anne felt at peace.

Henry drew back and stared at Anne’s face. Anne’s eyes were shut tightly, and there was an enigmatic, entrancing smile on her frozen, lifeless features – the Boleyn smile. Henry shook her and called her name, but she didn’t answer him. He shook her again and called her, but no answer followed. The king continued calling her, and the whole life in him was, at that moment, concentrated in the magic sound of his queen’s name. Henry began to talk about the happy times of the past and promising her that everything would change between them, that he would always be faithful to her and that he would love her forever, desperately hoping that she would wake up and smile at him, but Anne didn’t react.

Soon Henry’s talk of the happy times ceased softly as he realized that Anne had died during their second kiss. The king glanced at his wife and shook his head in disbelief, not wishing to reconcile himself to the thought that Anne had been gone forever. He could only look at Anne whose body was lifeless and breathless in his arms. Anne looked even more beautiful in her death because now her lovely, exotic features were softened by something angelic and empyreal. The smile on her face was a brilliant one because Anne had died a happy woman after she had fulfilled her destiny.

“No! No! No!” was Henry’s shrill scream of despair and horror. “Anne! Anne! Anne!”

Henry embraced Anne and buried his face into her slender neck he had loved to kiss so much when she had been alive and which he had often compared to a swan’s neck. He felt how light Anne’s body was when he lifted it a little bit, as though she had became a creature of air after her death. His eyes filled with tears that freely streamed down his cheeks, and there was a heavy, pulsating, destroying ache already building in his body and rushing through his core. He clutched the body of his dead wife with fierceness and despair he had never felt and displayed before. He didn’t want to let her go, and he couldn’t accept the death of the woman whom he had once chosen to be his wife and his queen. King Henry’s desperate screams of grief and pain allowed everyone to understand what had just happened.

“Your Majesty… Henry,” Charles Brandon murmured, lowering his voice to a whisper. He was the first one who dared come into the queen’s bedchamber after listening to the king’s screams during several minutes. All others stood outside, fearing to interrupt the king in his mourning for his wife.

Through a mist of tears he was no longer able to restrain, Henry saw Charles’ stop near the bed. He was still holding Anne’s body in his arms; his blue doublet and pants were crimson. “Anne died… she died… she died…” His was cracking, and his expression was a personification of agony, as if he were feeling thrilled at the prospect of dying to stop his suffering. “She left me…”

Charles sighed. “Please accept my sincere condolences, Henry.” He loathed Anne Boleyn and she was his mortal enemy, but her death didn’t make him happy at all.

The king swallowed his sobs, looking at Anne’s face with eyes of a lovesick man. “Anne looks so peaceful and so enigmatic in death,” he commented in adoration. “She was a one-of-a-kind woman. There was something deep and dangerous in her eyes that were like _hooks to her soul_.” He turned his tear-stained face to his friend. “She is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Charles agreed for appearance’s sake. He didn’t particularly care how Anne looked after her death. He would have buried her with honor and would have move on with pleasure.

“Do you doubt that Anne is beautiful in death?” Henry asked, his eyes blazing with anger.

Charles sighed, his mouth tightened as he prepared to speak about the things which made him feel so uncomfortable. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, feigning immense sadness on his face and in his voice. “Her Majesty was the most unusual woman in the world.” At least his last statement wasn’t a lie, he thought, because Anne Boleyn was indeed unique.

Tenderly holding the deceased queen in his arms, the king stared at Charles with dead eyes, his heart splintering into tiny shards. “Anne didn’t deserve to die. She should have had a long, happy life, with Elizabeth, William, and me,” he lamented. “Why is God so cruel? Why did God take her from me?”

The Duke of Suffolk wanted to say to Henry some words of consolation and encouragement. “Now the queen’s death may seem unfair, but God knows what he does and when he does that. He never calls anyone to Heaven without a reason.” He paused, his brain formulating the words to come. “Her Majesty gave Your Majesty the greatest gift – a healthy son and heir, Prince William Tudor. It seems that there is a price for everything.” He believed that Anne had paid for her sins and had died knowing that Henry had been unfaithful to her, feeling the pain and humiliation Catherine of Aragon had once felt.

“Do you want to say that my son killed Anne?” Henry bellowed as anger boiled in his blood, for his friend’s statement enraged him. He looked pitiful and distraught, his aquamarine eyes a shade darker and brimming with tears, his features ghostly pale.

Charles lowered his eyes. “I am sorry that my words confused Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice, not looking at the king. “I meant that Her Majesty’s death was the price for the survival of Prince William and the price for the bright future of England with the Tudor dynasty on the throne.” He sighed, hoping that his speech would take away some of Henry’s pain and anger.

Henry lifted his eyes from Anne’s face and stared at Charles, his gaze suspicious and frantic, as if he were searching for a trace of deceit; but then he relaxed, and a smile appeared on his face. “You are right, Charles,” he responded in a steady voice that sounded a little more cheerful. “My son William will preside over empires. He will bring peace and prosperity to England, as well as glory to the Tudor dynasty. My father’s hard work founding the royal House of Tudor wasn’t done in vain.”

Charles signed, relieved. “I have no doubt that it will happen, Your Majesty.”

The king swung his gaze to Anne’s face. His eyes stung with tears, and he blinked them away. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if it could save him from his heartache, but in a moment his eyes fluttered open and he looked at his wife’s face, tranquil and exquisite and beautiful in death, as if all care and sorrow were wiped away and as if she had found something more than peace, more than oblivion, and more than concord. “Anne, my beloved Perseverance, I will never stop loving you,” he took an oath. “I will never forget you and what you have done for me and for England, sweetheart.”

“Her Majesty will always be in our hearts,” Charles Brandon said, this time truthfully.

Henry bent his head down and planted a tender kiss on Anne’s forehead. Then he kissed her shortly in her cold lips, and then his lips travelled down her alabaster throat. Then he broke the kiss and looked up at her face. “I promise that I will make our children’s life happy, safe, and full of joy. I will make sure that they will always remember this great mother,” he told Anne as if she were able to hear him. “So far, you will watch us from Heaven, and then we will meet when the hour of my death comes.”

“England and the people will never forget Her Majesty,” Charles added, again sincerely.

The king blinked away his tears which he couldn’t brush way because the queen was in his arms. “I will hold our love sacred, my own sweetheart.” His gaze flicked over her prone form, and he didn’t cringe at the sight of the bloodied sheets. “Your sacrifices won’t be useless, my queen.”

An ominous silence reigned in the chamber. Outside the palace, it started raining heavily as if nature were mourning for Queen Anne Boleyn, and the sound of it was loud on the glass of the window. The lightning became vivid flashing in the dark heavens, and the thunder exploded in the sky.

“Do you have any orders, Henry?” Charles intervened into the king’s dialogue with the dead woman.

Henry turned his gaze at Charles. He narrowed his eyes, feeling murderous anger welling up inside him. “I want Jane Seymour and her family out of the palace by tomorrow’s morning.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty?” Charles inquired, at loss.

“I want Jane Seymour and her relatives to be thrown into the streets into the night and drizzling rain.” Henry’s voice resonated like the sound of a bell. “I want them out of sight and out of my life forever.”

Charles held his breath in astonishment. “But, Your Majesty, are you sure that–”

George Boleyn interrupted Charles Brandon. “I will deal with the Seymours if Your Majesty permits me that,” he said earnestly. “You have my word that everything will be done quickly and without noise.”

“This woman is guilty of the queen’s death,” Thomas Boleyn added as he emerged at his son’s right. “She deliberately caused the scandal that resulted in my daughter’s premature labor and her death.” He lied on purpose because he knew that it was exactly what the king wanted to hear.

George Boleyn felt his heart broken in many small pieces at the sight of his sister’s lifeless body in the king’s arms. He regretted he didn’t have time to say goodbye to Anne, but Doctor Linacre had told them that Anne had been bleeding to death, which had meant that only the king had had a chance to spend those few moments of with his queen. Thomas Boleyn regretted that Anne had died, but at least she had given the king a male heir, cementing the attachment of the Boleyns and the Howards to the Tudor dynasty; he had already accepted Anne’s death.

The Duke of Suffolk frowned. “Really, Lord Wilshire?”

The Earl of Wilshire smiled slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The king stared numbly at Thomas and George Boleyn, his blue eyes suddenly shimmering with tears. “I, King Henry VIII of England, hereby banish each member of the Seymour family from the court permanently,” his unsteady voice resonated,a poignant emptiness settling in his chest. “I officially declare that Sir John Seymour, Sir Edward Seymour, and Sir Thomas Seymour are stripped of all their titles and their estates, as well as of all the positions and privileges at the court, which were granted to them as a kind of my friendship, which they have betrayed. I want Lady Jane Seymour to be sent to a nunnery where she will live until her dying day.”

Thomas Boleyn and George Boleyn nodded in agreement, determined to get rid of the Seymours as soon as possible. The Boleyns intended to cause the Seymours as much humiliation as they could: George needed to take his revenge for the death and unhappiness of his sister, while Thomas simply enjoyed the idea of having their foes destroyed and crumpled into pieces. Charles Brandon only let out a sigh of frustration, knowing that he could do nothing because the king had already made up his mind and if he had dared try to sway Henry from that course of action, nothing good would come out of that.

King Henry didn’t leave the queen’s suite during the whole night in spite of Charles Brandon’s requests and the standard royal protocol that the king wasn’t supposed to stay near the dead spouse for a long time. This was the first time a King of England had ever been present at his queen’s side after her death, but nobody dared say anything against Henry’s order to give him more time with Anne. Outside, the rain and the wind wrought a little havoc in the empty streets of London.

The deathly stillness in the room and the stupor of despair seized on Henry, and he felt that he couldn’t breathe because his entire body was a mass of pain that was increasing with very minute passing since Anne’s death. Henry was still holding Anne in his arms: one of his hands was wrapped around her waist and the other supported her head. He was heartbroken and devastated because Anne’s death meant a death of a part of his heart, as he had believed at that time, although time would show that he would move on and even marry another woman whom he would be in love with too. Henry didn’t want to believe that Anne had departed to another world, and he hated God for taking her from him.

The king imagined that he could hear Anne’s familiar voice and could feel her inflamed and passionate spirit as intensely and as acutely, with every part of his body, as he had felt when she alive in his arms. He was talking to her as if she could hear him, and at times he even endeavored vainly to arouse her to a sense of his presence. At times, Henry thought that he heard Anne breathing feebly and her heartbeat, and once he even imagined that she stretched out her hand towards him and he scooped her into his arms. Then restless sleep finally claimed the king, and at dawn the queen’s ladies found Henry in slumber, pressing Anne to his chest as the most precious treasure in the world.

The tragic death of Anne Boleyn manifested the end of Queen Anne Boleyn’s physical life but not the end of Anne’s era because her legacy was great – Princess Elizabeth and William, the Prince of Wales. Anne Boleyn, the woman who was hated and cursed by many courtiers but who was admired and worshipped by many others, had tragically died, but her life and legacy would continue in her children. Nobody doubted that the king would love his two children with almost a desperate love, more than he would have loved them if Anne had survived, and he would pamper and spoil them, protecting them from each and every source of danger, possible and impossible, imaginary and existing. Anne Boleyn’s death was not pointless – it was glamorous and glorious.

§§§

It was raining heavily during the night of Anne Boleyn’s death, as if God and Heaven were weeping and grieving the loss of Queen Anne; the dreary blackness of the sky was terrible to behold. Yet, in the morning everybody could feel the refreshment of the cool, fragrant air and could see the lovely blue of the winter sky, and the bright, rosy sunrise met the habitants of the Whitehall palace and the city of London, giving some gayety to the environment. It was possible to be lost in the bright softness of the sky.As the rain stopped and the weather improved, the spirits were slightly raised, and some people even said that the change in the weather immediately after such a great tragedy meant the approach of the never-before-seen times of prosperity and enlightenment in England.

Even despite the death of Queen Anne Boleyn, the Boleyns and the Howards triumphed as Anne had given Henry a healthy son. Now the two powerful families were safe and became the center of influence at the court and in England. It seemed that nothing could weaken them or deprive them of King Henry’s favor, and they even expected further elevations and amassing of wealth and power. However, George Boleyn’s relationship with his father was a sore spot on the public image of the Boleyns because the rumors about George’s rebellion against his father had swiftly spread at the court.

The Seymours were utterly and completely destroyed. Using their chance, Thomas Boleyn and George Boleyn appeared in the Seymours apartments and ordered them to pack their things, saying that the king had commanded them to leave the court permanently. With a smug smile on his face and wintry eyes, George Boleyn notified Jane Seymour that Henry had ordered her to retire to a nunnery, the king didn’t wish to ever see her again, and that she should be grateful for not being given a harsher punishment. Disgraced and humiliated, the Seymours were forced to leave the Whitehall palace in the nighttime and under the heavy rain, and nobody cared that they had nowhere to go after the king had disowned them of all their property and had even stripped them of knighthood.

Anne Boleyn, a gambler in every sense of the word who had possessed corroding passion for play on political arena and in private life, had won the game even in her death because she had done what others failed to do – she had given England the golden Tudor Prince who one day would rule England. Anne Boleyn had won, and all others, including Jane Seymour, had lost. Years would pass and seasons would change, marked by changes in weather, winds, and hours of daylight, but the name of Anne Boleyn would be forever ringing in the ears of the English people as the name of the woman who had sacrificed her life to give England its future king. Anne’s death was a great tragedy, but William Tudor’s birth could also become the beginning of the Golden Age in England.

The funeral of Queen Anne Boleyn was a solemn and grand occasion, which was designed to match the grand funeral procession of Elizabeth of York more than thirty years before. Catherine of Aragon hadn’t received a proper funeral befitting a queen and had been buried as the Dowager Princess of Wales, but everything was different in Anne’s case. The Duke of Norfolk was responsible for funeral arrangements, and the king commanded to give his beloved wife a grand funeral fitting for the queen and the mother of the future King of England, as well as the love of his life. Anne Boleyn was buried at Windsor Castle, and Henry told his closest entourage that he wished to be buried by Anne’s side after his own death.

Lady Mary Boleyn Stafford, Anne’s elder sister, was summoned back to the court. Mary Boleyn was a chief mourner but she didn’t attend the religious services on the day of Anne’s funeral because she was prostrate with grief after her sister’s death, whom she loved dearly even despite her banishment from the court, as well as despite Anne’s cold treatment the last time when the Boleyn sisters had met. Mary paid for many Masses to be sung for Queen Anne’s soul and took charge of her household which represented a chaotic mess since the queen’s passing.

Sir Francis Bryan rode to Hatfield, Princess Elizabeth’s household, bringing the grave news to everyone. He also met with Lady Mary Tudor, the king’s firstborn daughter whom he considered illegitimate and who continue being a threat to Anne Boleyn’s children even after William’s birth because she still considered herself the true Princess of Wales. As soon as she heard the news of the Concubine’s death, Mary rejoiced, thinking that God had finally punished Anne for her sins; but the news of William’s birth distressed her very much. Unexpectedly, she was ordered to attend the queen’s funeral by the king; she didn’t want to go there, but Francis Bryan almost dragged her to the carriage.

Lady Mary Tudor attended Queen Anne’s funeral against her will. She hated the evil woman with all her heart, not wishing to ever forgive Anne for all the pain the dead queen had caused to her saint mother and to her. During Mass, Mary pretended that she was praying by making her lips twitch ever so lightly: she would have never prayed for Anne’s eternal life in Heaven, and she swore that she would hate Anne until her dying breath. Mary was sure that Anne had damned her immortal soul and was now burning in hellfire. When she was on her way to her small room that didn’t fit her high rank of the true Princess of England, Mary met her father for the first time in many years, and the king even didn’t look at her, living in the world overwhelmed only on his own pain.

King Henry didn’t participate in Queen Anne’s funeral, as was customary. Yet, he tried to disregard the traditions and wished to be there in order to see how the love of his life would be put to eternal rest. Charles Brandon and George Boleyn managed to persuade Henry to give up his idea, stating that it was a bad omen for any king to attend his queen’s funeral. Henry argued and quarreled with them, but finally relented only when they gave an argument that his children William and Elizabeth were still very young and needed their father alive and healthy even more after their mother’s tragic death.

On the day of Anne’s funeral, Henry ordered his servant to bring him a decanter of wine and shut himself in his bedchamber. He was very depressed, wishing to wallow in his grief in his unblessed solitude. The king felt guilty of his betrayal with Jane Seymour and all other women he had taken to his bed after his marriage to Anne; to his own amazement, he repented even of all his infidelities to Catherine. The thoughts about the what-if scenarios of what could have happened if Anne hadn’t seen him kissing Jane were racing through his mind once more again and again, and he felt sick of guilt that suffocated him. His heart was so full of pain and anguish, which he tried to dampen by drinking wine.

The king wanted to glorify the name of the woman who had given her life for his son across his kingdom, making Anne’s name immortal. Before Anne’s funeral, he spoke a long and high-minded speech in Anne’s honor, calling her _the saint Queen Anne and the greatest love of his life_ , thanking Anne for the greatest gift she had given him – Prince William. Henry also ordered everyone at the court to wear black for six months. He paid for many Masses in the honor of his deceased queen, and every day he himself prayed for Anne’s soul in the privacy of his quarters.

Henry even went further and proclaimed that the spirit of Anne Boleyn would live forever within the walls of the Whitehall palace and every palace where Anne’s feet had ever stepped. He also professed his undying love for Anne in the presence of his counselors and courtiers, declaring that nothing could lessen or twist his feelings for the dead queen. The king also ordered Thomas Wyatt to compose beautiful poems about Queen Anne, glorifying her name in England, and a deluge of breathtaking verses came from the poet’s quill. For many courtiers, Henry’s speeches sounded quite ironic and hilarious because it was widely known that the king had been tiring of his intemperate and jealous wife before her death, but nobody uttered a word and nodded at their sovereign in agreement.

King Henry didn’t participate in the christening of Prince William Tudor and awaited him in the special chamber. The little prince, _the golden Prince of England_ as Henry called him lovingly, was officially named William as Anne wished. Henry ordered Lady Mary Tudor to be William’s godmother, hoping that such a simple act would make his stubborn daughter feel closer to the motherless young boy who needed love and care from his relatives, which in turn could lead to Mary’s agreement to sign the Oath of succession. Even Princess Elizabeth was present during the christening, always asking Lady Nan Saville and her governess Lady Katherine Chaperowne why Anne had left her.

Anne Boleyn was correct in her deathbed calculations: the common people mourned for her death after the news about the tragedy had spread in London and in England. The people no longer hated and despised Anne, and they no longer labeled her the Concubine and the Harlot and Elizabeth a bastard. Everyone in England accepted Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England, thinking that Prince William Tudor’s birth was God’s sign that Henry’s marriage to Anne was legal and valid. Anne was loved and cherished in her death more than she had ever been in her life, and her name was glorified by the people of England as the name of the woman who had died to give England the long-awaited prince, whose birth had saved the kingdom from the potential wars of succession.

Anne Boleyn’s fame overshadowed Catherine of Aragon’s.Had Anne lived, she might have been the most influential and celebrated among all the former and future wives of King Henry VIII of England if she had changed and had learnt to tolerate his infidelities. Maybe the king would have never set aside the woman who gave him a son, and perhaps he would have loved her more than Catherine, for whom he had been her “ _Sir Loyal Heart_ ” in all tournaments and jousts where he had participated and whom he had cruelly cast aside when he had fallen for Anne. Whatever happened, Henry was unlikely to ever become more considerate and less selfish, and Anne knew about that, understanding that she would have never been happy in her marriage to him, if she had survived; so death for Anne was a much better fate than a bittersweet and _hollow_ end of their great love and romance.

Although Madge Shelton had been the first one who had spread the rumor that King Henry had entertained himself on the day of the queen’s labor with Lady Jane Seymour, soon the whole court was buzzing with the news about the mortal sin of the Seymour maiden. The courtiers and the folks had also learnt that Henry’s adultery with Jane had lead to Queen Anne’s premature labor, which had eventually killed Anne. The supporters of the Seymours made a move against their former favorites, like many backstabbers and seasoned courtiers always acted: now they began to openly display their loathing towards Jane Seymour and her family, calling her a murderess of Queen Anne Boleyn, and instead they tried to ingratiate themselves with the Boleyns.

Jane Seymour’s name was whispered with disgust and abhorrence, and she was called the Whore and the Jezebel, comparing her to the biblical Jezebel who incited her husband King Ahab to abandon the worship of Yahweh and encourage worship of the deities Baal and Asherah instead. Some of the most active and violent townsfolk gathered on various squares and near magistrates in London, demanding that the king punish Jane Seymour for causing Queen Anne’s death and accuse her of high treason. At that time, it was a common thing to hear that Jane Seymour should meet a gruesome death like it happened to the biblical Jezebel who was thrown out of a window by members of her own court retinue, and the flesh of her corpse was eaten by stray dogs. Jane was lucky to be in the convent because if she had ever appeared in the city, she would have risked of being trampled down by horses or being killed by the bloodthirsty and angry mob.

In the memory of his beloved Anne, Henry elevated Thomas Boleyn to the Duke of Wilshire, and the old man was swooning in happiness that he had achieved in the highest rank in the peerage of England. Becoming a duke was the greatest dream of Thomas’ life, and he was grateful to Anne for giving the king a son because now he had become invincible and had a lot of power. Thomas Boleyn was now as rich and influential as Thomas Howard, and together these two men were the most powerful nobleman in the realm and were in Henry’s highest favor. George Boleyn was created the Earl of Rochford and was granted several more estates.

King Henry permitted George Boleyn to annul his marriage to Lady Jane Parker Boleyn. George appealed to his liege for divorce not because he wanted to continue his secret love affair with Mark Smeaton, but because he craved to be free from his harpy wife. But the king had a project in his mind: he wanted to marry off his daughter Mary to George Boleyn, tying Mary to the Boleyns and making her accept the inevitability of her bastardization and the necessity to sign the Oath. George was shocked, but he didn’t object as it was a great honor to be married to the king’s daughter. He would have to break his relationship with Mark, but he was ready to do that for his monarch and for himself, understating that his affair could lead to his execution if their enemies figured out their secret.

At those dark and gloomy days, the English court was almost deserted. There were no grand feasts and festivities, and the courtiers were dressed in dark colors in mourning for Queen Anne. In all the chambers, there were numerous funeral wreaths weaved from red and white roses, Anne’s favorite flowers, which were delivered from the royal orchard-houses. Some courtiers, mainly Catherine’s supporters, wore mourning clothes, but pretended that they were unhappy in the aftermath of Anne’s death. Among them, there was Lady Mary Tudor who also wore black in spite of her feigned mourning.

The King of England didn’t appear in his presence room, and there were no meetings of the Privy Council. He was rarely seen in the corridors of the palace, preferring to spend the evening alone in his quarters, drinking himself to numbness in an attempt to forget about the harsh reality and dampen the pain from the loss of Anne. When he couldn’t be alone and wanted to scream wildly as an animal wounded to death from loneliness and pain, Henry summoned Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, and George Boleyn, the Earl of Rochford, to his chambers. Days were passing by, but nothing changed, and the king didn’t want to leave his chambers.

One evening, King Henry was drinking in his chambers together with Charles Brandon and George Boleyn. The king began to love George Boleyn much more than before, because George reminded him of Anne; he felt closer to his dead wife when he was with her brother. Henry also craved to be in the company of Charles, his old and close friend whom he associated with the happy and carefree days of his youth. Sitting near the fireplace, the three of them were drinking wine from large jeweled goblets throughout more than an hour.

Charles poured out a goblet of wine for King Henry. “Your Majesty, it is for you,” he offered.

Henry took a goblet, giving his friend a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you, Charles.”

“I am always here for you,” Charles answered, sipping wine from his goblet.

The king sipped some wine. “I don’t know what I would have done without you two,” he declared, looking between Charles and George. “I want to see you both and only you. I don’t need anyone else.”

“Your Majesty, if you need an ear, I am at your disposal,” George said truthfully. Even though he resented the king for betraying Anne with so many women, Henry’s genuine grief made him respect his liege a great deal. In the past weeks, the bonds of affectionate friendship had formed between Henry and George.

“I know, George, I know.” Henry looked at the dying embers in the fireplace. “When I look at you, I always remember my Anne. You and she have much in common.”

“Our wit and courteous manners,” George remarked, sipping wine.

“Yes,” Henry confirmed.

Although his relationship with George Boleyn had improved after the younger man’s fallout with his ambitious father, Charles wasn’t very fond of George. “Lord Rochford, how is your courtship of Lady Mary Tudor is going?” he inquired, changing the topic.

George sipped more wine, struggling to keep his face straight and neutral. He had always felt too overwhelmed by emotions talking about Mary, whom he unexpectedly liked very much and found absolutely stunning. “It is not easy to court Lady Mary, but His Grace and I have achieved some success,” he said with undeniable pride. “She agreed to sign the Oath of succession and acknowledge herself as Your Majesty’s illegitimate daughter.”

The king stared at George in amazement. “Really?”

George nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” Charles confirmed, sipping wine.

“Has she agreed to marry you, George?” Henry poured another goblet of wine for himself.

“Yes, she did.” Oddly enough, George felt very enthusiastic about his marriage to the bastardized princess.

Henry released a heavy sigh. He emptied a goblet with one gulp and slammed it on the table. “Very well then,” he drawled every word. “At least I wouldn’t have to sign my eldest daughter’s death warrant.” He sighed again. “I would have accused Mary of high treason if she hadn’t agreed to sign the Oath and hadn’t proved her obedience to my orders and my will.” He lowered his eyes, looking on the floor. “I would have never tolerated any threat to William’s rights for kingship.”

Charles and George shared uneasy glances. Mary Tudor’s agreement to relent and sign the Oath was their mutual achievement. They had spent many hours, talking to Mary and explaining to her what would happen if she hadn’t signed the Oath. Mary had told them about the day when Anne Boleyn had come to her in Hatfield, after she had started serving in Elizabeth’s household, and she, Mary, had promised on that day that she would never recognize her mother’s marriage as null and void. Only after George and Charles had sworn on the bible that Henry had really intended to order her arrest and perhaps even execute her, she had agreed to officially declare herself a bastard. Mary had even assented to marry George Boleyn, though even the idea of this marriage was abominable to her. But the alternative was death at the order of her own father, and Mary was convinced that her mother would have wanted her to live.

George stared into the flames. “When do you want me to marry Lady Mary Tudor, Your Majesty?”

“As soon as the mourning period is over,” Henry answered.

“I will do as you wish, Your Majesty,” George said simply.

“Congratulations, Lord Rochford.” Charles’s voice sounded sincere, and he really hoped that Mary would at least find solace in her matrimony and children she would bear.

George grinned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

They continued drinking wine in silence for a long time. The overconsumption of wine awakened desperation in Henry, and he suddenly felt something like a wondrous craving deep inside. His mind whirled in the memories about Anne Boleyn, and he remembered the night when their son William had been conceived, the night of wild and vehement passion after they had danced the Volté before the eyes of the court. That night Henry had been hers and she had been his, and anybody else – the rest of the court, the rest of the country, and the rest of the world, meant nothing to each of them. It was the most passionate night Henry had with any woman.

Henry smiled dreamily. “I still love Anne. I will never get over her,” he whispered.

Neither Charles nor George said anything in response. George had no doubt that Henry would never feel such deep passion for any other woman even if he ever fell in love again, and he didn’t doubt even for a second that the king would eventually re-marry. Charles didn’t like Henry’s unfading and lingering affection for Anne, but he also began to believe that Henry would never be entirely over Anne.

The sounds of approaching footsteps in the corridor broke the silence. Then Thomas Cromwell appeared at the doorway; he bowed to the king respectfully. “Your Majesty, I beg my pardon for disturbing you, but I have urgent news from Lady Jane Seymour,” he said without preamble.

“What does this Jezebel want?” Henry roared in rage. He slammed his fist on the table that trembled from the strength of his blow; a sea of wine splashed on the surface. “I don’t want to ever hear her name again!” He took an empty goblet and threw it into the wall. “She murdered Anne! I could have ordered to arrest her for high treason! She should be grateful that I only sent her to a nunnery.”

Cromwell nodded studiedly. “I agree that Lady Jane doesn’t deserve to be ever spoken about by Your Majesty,” he pretended to agree with the king’s statement. “But something urgent has happened.”

George and Charles eyed Cromwell with unhidden loathing as they both disliked the man, though for different reasons. George reveled in the thought that the king had made him Cromwell’s supervisor in the religious reforms after some complains about Cromwell’s activities in religious area. George aimed to bring Cromwell down over time, and he had already shared his secret plan with Charles. George and Charles had become allies in their quest for destruction of Thomas Cromwell.

Henry's eyes glittered with murderous rage. “What does she want?”Red-hot anger coursed through him, and he envisioned a huge pool of sticky blood on his blade – Jane's blood. A crimson mist of hatred surrounded him and penetrated into his core; he lived among the leaden clouds of pain and hatred, hating Jane more than he could hate any pretender to his throne.

“Lady Jane suffered a miscarriage a day ago,” Cromwell informed. He didn’ttake at a face value the rumors that Henry had bedded the virtuous Lady Jane before, but now he was sure that the two of them were lovers. “The abbess from the priory where Your Majesty sent Lady Jane wrote that the she is dying and begging you to come to her before her death.”

Henry felt numb in shock, shaking his head in disbelief. He took a goblet in his hand and drank it in one huge gulp. Then he poured another goblet for himself and emptied it in one long swallow. He needed to drink because the shock was very profound. But even in his perplexed state, he remembered the fateful night three months ago, when Anne had gone into labor and when he had taken Jane’s maidenhead. He hadn’t been careful enough when he had been intimate with Jane, not thinking of the possibility to sire a bastard on her, but now it became a reality.

The king drank more wine. “I won’t go to her. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Charles shook his head in disagreement. “Your Majesty, I have to object to you, with all my deep respect to you,” he asserted, his voice quiet but firm. “I think you should go there.”

George shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He despised Jane Seymour, but he didn’t wish her dead. “It would be a last act of Christian mercy if Your Majesty decides to visit Lady Jane.”

Henry removed his doublet, throwing it away to the floor. He had drunk so much wine that his entire body was on fire. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and above his full lips. “Fine,” he conceded.

At dawn, Henry left the Whitehall Palace, accompanied by Charles and George. The ride to the priory located in the county of Middlesex was not long but tiresome and somewhat awkward. It wasn’t every day when the widowed King of England visited his former mistress whose behavior partly caused his queen’s untimely death and who was currently dying after she had suffered a miscarriage of a half-royal child. They rode in a tense silence, in haste, trying to make it there by midday.

“Your Majesty, I can see the gates of the priory,” the Duke of Suffolk announced.

Henry sighed heavily in response to his words, then cursed under his breath. “The sooner we are done here, the better it will be.” He was certain that he wouldn’t stay long with Jane because he didn’t even wish to look at her, and he doubted that he would mourn for her. For him, the visit was an act of formality and mercy, as George had called it; after all, he considered himself the merciful monarch.

The king silently gave his reins to the stable boy and hopped down from his horse; George and Charles followed his example. Henry said no word on the way to the small monastic cell where Jane Seymour was spending her last hours. The abbess briefly told the king that Jane had miscarried and then infection had settled into her womb, and the local physician had failed to find a cure, so the young disgraced lady was now at death’s door. The last rites had already been administered to Jane.

Soon they all stopped near the heavy door. The abbess nodded at the king, signaling that they had arrived. Charles and George stepped aside respectfully, not intending to go inside the cell.

Henry dragged a deep breath, hesitating to enter, but then he pushed the door ahead. He couldn’t help but look at the picture before his eyes with a slightly confused expression as his gaze focused on the deathly pale face of the woman who lay on a narrow wooden bed in the corner. The king was barely able to recognize Jane Seymour in the woman: she looked so much unlike the sweet and lovely maiden he had once spotted among Anne’s ladies and whom he had called _“_ _his Guinevere_ _”_. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as there was the thick odor of death in the cell – the scent of blood and vomit.

Henry didn’t want to be alone with Jane in this room filled with shadows of death, but he had already travelled to the priory from London and there was no way back. He made a step forward, but still hesitated and paused in the middle of the cell. “Jane, I have come as you asked,” he said coldly.

Jane Seymour was quiet for a long moment, looking at the king whom she still loved. She was so quiet that Henry doubted for a moment that she was breathing. “Henry,” she whispered his name at last. “You have come to me in my last hours. You have showed your mercy to me.”

Henry stared at Jane, his gaze hard. He made another step forward and paused near the bed, but he didn’t take a seat in the chair that stood near the bed. “What do you want, Jane?”

“I never liked Anne Boleyn, but I feel so guilty of her death.” Her voice came out as a chocked whisper. “And now I am dying after a miscarriage, a death so similar to her death, only not in childbirth.”

Henry looked into Jane’s glassy eyes, understanding that she was barely able to see him. His heart thudded in his chest as he discovered that he actually felt pity for her, but there was no trace of the old affection he had once considered the love of his life. He wondered if he had ever really loved Jane because his so-called love for her was nothing compared to the deep and all-absorbing feeling which he was still feeling for his deceased wife. He also regretted that Jane had lost his child just because he had lost too many children in his entire life.

“I am sorry, Jane.” He couldn’t offer her anything else. He would have never married her after Anne’s death even if he had known that she had been with child.

“I love you, Henry,” she murmured.

“I cannot say the same about myself,” Henry commented with a sour laugh.

Jane simply nodded her head, feeling numb and weaker than before. “I know you always loved her more than me,” she whispered. She was almost on the verge of tears. “And I doubt that you ever loved any woman as deeply as they love you,” she added.

Henry gave a cry of outrage, and stared at the ceiling. “You have no right to tell me anything after what you did on the day of Anne’s death. How dare you–”

“Your Majesty, I dare say this because I did nothing to you. I only loved you and gave in to your insistent advances,” she interrupted him; she didn’t feel obliged to listen to his angry speech. “I conceived your child on the day when our sin caused the death of Queen Anne, and I am paying a high price for my love for you.”

His expression softened. “Jane, don’t say that.”

Jane shook her head, her eyes shining with tears. “Our affair killed the queen,” she said in a weaker voice. “My death is the punishment for her death. Eye for an eye, blood for blood.”

Henry felt his hands and knees shake. “Jane, please…” He stumbled with words. He let his eyes examine the cell, staring absent-mindedly at the bible that lay on Jane's bedside table.

When Henry looked at Jane next time, it took him only a few moments to realize that Jane’s breathing had stopped. He could see the same imprint of death on Jane’s face as he had seen on Anne’s face months ago. He emitted a heavy sigh, and bowed his head low in a mere respect to another soul taken from earth by God; then he crossed himself. He didn’t go to Jane’s bed because he didn’t wish her spend any more time there, intending to return to London by nightfall. Before his departure, the king gave the abbess money for Masses in the memory of Jane, and then he left.

King Henry VIII of England would spend four years in mourning for Queen Anne, and then he would remarry Anne of Cleves, the sister of the Duke of Cleves, seeking to establish a new important alliance with German Protestant States. However, Henry’s marriage to Anne of Cleves would never be consummated and would be annulled, so the king could marry Lady Catherine Howard, the Duke of Norfolk's niece and Anne Boleyn’s cousin, whom the king would supposedly love. It would be the moment when the alliance of George Boleyn and Charles Brandon would finally give a result because Thomas Cromwell would fall out of favor as a result of George and Charles’ intensive scheming. Cromwell would be charged with high treason and executed on Tower Green, strictly speaking butchered by a drunken executioner hired by George and Charles.

After the demise of Thomas Cromwell, George Boleyn and Charles Brandon would become not only allies, but also friends. The death of Thomas Boleyn would make them closer. The wives of the two men would become friends too: young Catherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk, who was Maria de Salinas’s daughter, would always support and love Lady Mary Tudor Boleyn, the Duchess of Wilshire and the Countess of Rochford after the death of George’s father.

Unexpectedly for himself, George Boleyn would find happiness in his marriage to Mary Tudor, and she would also fall in love with him over time. Mary would never entirely forgive Anne Boleyn for usurping the crown and replacing her mother in her father’s good graces and heart, but she would stop hating Anne as years would pass and she would mature, although she would never stop resenting the dead woman. Unlike Charles Brandon, George would be faithful to his wife and would be happier in his private life; he would never regret his decision to break up with Mark Smeaton who would remain his friend. Some of George and Charles’ children would marry in the future, uniting the families.

King Henry would be head over heels in love with Catherine Howard, calling her “ _his rose without thorns_ ” with love and devotion. He would award Catherine with Cromwell’s former lands and a vast array of expensive jewelry, hoping that she would give him another legitimate son to secure the Tudor line. But very soon after their marriage, it would become known that Catherine hadn’t been a virgin when she had married the king and that she had betrayed him with Thomas Culpeper. Henry’s love for the girl would evaporate as quickly as smoke after fire, and he would order the young girl’s execution without a second thought, hating her and cursing her in his mind.

After Catherine Howard’s death, Henry would marry his last wife, the wealthy widow Catherine Parr, who would outlive him; he wouldn’t have children in his other marriages. There would never be a woman equal to Anne Boleyn – Anne will never be forgotten and no future wife of Henry would ever be her like her. Henry would refer to Anne “ _the greatest love of his life_ ” and “ _his own sweetheart_ ” long after her death, and the name of Queen Anne would be glorified and celebrated in England for many years to come. The king would always miss his Anne, always being grateful to her for the short years of their marriage and for giving him a healthy son – Prince William Tudor, the Prince of Wales, whom he would always love dearly, more than Elizabeth, and would spoil beyond measure.

Anne Boleyn would be dead in her grave at Windsor for many years while Henry Tudor would be falling in love and out of love with young and beautiful ladies at the court, craving to feel young and full of energy again. Henry would scatter his affections among his countless mistresses, but Anne Boleyn would always have a special place in his heart. The memory of Anne would live forever, but it wouldn’t prevent Henry from loving all women whom he bedded until he was bored with them. Henry would always be a fickle man who would grant his love to many ladies, would pine for his Anne Boleyn, but would love himself more than anyone else in the world.

The king wouldn’t know that Anne would be watching him from Heaven, smiling to herself and thanking God for saving her from the years of misery with Henry and from the feeling of _hollowness_ she would have felt every time when he would have come to her bed after loving others. Anne would have no doubt then that Henry’s for her had always been _hollow_ and that their romance had been doomed from the beginning. She would be grateful to Henry for glorifying her name in death and for the love he would bear for William and Elizabeth, keeping his promise given to her, but even from Heaven she would resent him for being an inveterate womanizer. She would come to the conclusion that she had been really lucky to die in childbirth, thinking that the greatest glory could be achieved surely in death and never in falling, but in rising every time one falls. When Henry would pass away and their son William would be crowned, becoming King William II of England, Anne would finally meet Henry in Heaven and their tragic romance would start in another life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter, and I hope you enjoyed this story.
> 
> Anne Boleyn died in childbirth, and I do believe that glorious death in childbirth is better for her than life in an unhappy marriage with Henry. In her lifetime, Anne was hated and cursed by many courtiers but who was admired by many others, tragically died, but her life and legacy would continue in her children. She gave Henry a long-awaited son and immortalized her name. Jane Seymour also died, for I didn’t want only Anne dead and, thus, killed off Jane as well.
> 
> You already know that I am not a passionate Anne/Henry shipper, and I ship them only in death, in tragedy, or in a bittersweet end. I mentally ship Henry only with himself because he was the greatest love of his own life. I don’t believe that he loved any of his six wives more than he loved and cared for his mighty self. In alternate history, I would have always shipped him with himself. Now, some people call Henry’s diagnosis “narcissistic personality disorder”, and I agree with that.
> 
> In mythology, Aphrodite was disgusted with Narcissus’s rude and harsh behavior. To punish the arrogant lad, she placed a curse on him: he fell in love with himself and stayed by the pond night and day, wishing only to look at himself and being unable to tear his gaze from his reflection in the water. I wonder who put a curse of narcissism on Henry, though he was the spoiled child and his mother’s favorite, if my memory serves me well.
> 
> I guess Henry’s selfishness was “an inborn quality”, which developed in childhood when he was spoiled, adored, and loved and which progressed exponentially over the years. Finally, Henry became a malignant narcissist, who assumed the status of almost God because he had absolute power after he had been proclaimed the Head of the Church of England.


End file.
